LIBRARY OF CONGRESS, 



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THE 



YEARS OF YOUTH 



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A SERIES OF 



ORIGINAL POEMS. 



BY 

HORACE ROWE. 



" Youth no less becomes 
Th^ light and careless livery that it years, 
Than settled Age his sables and his weeds.' 



PHILADELPHIA: 

J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO. 
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Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1873, by 

HORACE ROWE, 
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington. 



TO THE MEMORY 

OF 

MY FATHER AND MOTHER, 

AS A VOTIVE TRIBUTE OF FILIAL AFFECTION, 

THIS VOLUME HAS BEEN INSCRIBED 

BY THEIR DEVOTED SON, 

THE AUTHOR. 



C O N T K NTS. 



I'ROEM . 
TO EMMIE . 
DUKE D'ENGHIEN 
IN MEMORIAM 



TO E. T 



El?Ei; 



JONES 



TO THE SAME . 

THE MIGHT HAVE P.EEN . 

lANTHE. — A DREAM 

STANZAS ON THE DEATH OK KL 

TO EULALIE . . . • 

SONNETS TO NIGHT . 

TO LILIE LENORE . 

THE JUDGMENT . 

THE GOLDEN OPPORTUNITY 

THE HEROINES OF HISTORY 

TO MARY 

STANZAS ON THE DEATH OF ADAH ISAACS MENKE 
AN IMPROMPTU LAMPOON ON FRIEND JACK 

LINES TO — , ACCOMPANYING A BOUQUET 

A PANEGYRIC ON WOMAN 

LINES WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM .... 
" MON AMI." TO 



PAGE 

9 
II 

^4 
19 
21 

23 
24 
25 
29 
31 
33 
35 
37 
39 
42 

5Tt 

53 
56 
57 
53 
65 
66 



8 CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

TO TOBY 68 

AN IMPROMPTU ESSAY. ON A MONTHLY REVIEW OF 

WACO UNIVERSITY 71 

BELSHAZZAR 73 

LINES ON LEAVING WACO UNIVERSITY . . . 77 

THE ANATHEMA OF LIFE 8l 

TO SUSIE 85 

THE FLOWER 87 

THE LOVERS' LEAP 88 

A DREAM. TO A YOUNG LADY OF GENIUS . 107 

TO ON RECEIVING HER PICTURE . . Ill 

A VALENTINE II3 

PROPHECY OF AARON BURR II4 

A PARAPHRASE. A SCHOOL EXERCISE . . II9 

TO MARY 122 

TO HER TO WHOM 'TIS MOST APPROPRIATE . 124 

WENDELL DE WAVERLY I26 

TO HER WHO FEELS THEM MOST . . . I40 

THE YEARS OF YOUTH I44 



PROEM. 



" Pictoribiis atque poctis 
Quid libet audcndi semper fait ajciiui potcstas." 

*^ T TPON this hint I spake," and now before the public 
venture to appear. 

Not, however, with the sanguine hope of waking up in 
the morning and finding myself famous; for it would 
scarcely be venial, and certainly most outre, to suppose 
that a production of this kind — written when it seems 
that the golden age of poesy is past, and by one whose 
mind is not inured to the storm and sunshine of maturer 
years, but one who, in age, is but a child in law — should 
create any unusual excitement in the literary world. 

Nevertheless, 

" 'Tis pleasant, sure, to see one's name in print; 
A book's a book, although there's nothing in 't." 

Yet it is not alone owing to this suggestion that I am 
induced to give publicity to these youthful effusions, but 
with a more creditable aim than to be saluted as the 
author of a l)ook. 

Poetry, with me, has ever l)cen a passion; and what is 
written is but the voice of the heart, and nut tlie elabo- 
rate diction of one, " the motions of whose spirit are as- 
dull as night, and whose affections dark as Erebus." 

Still, 1 do not advance this as an argument for obtrud- 

2 9 



lo PROEM. 

ing myself, at so early an age, on the patience of the 
public; for, in truth, the paramount cause in publishing 
this volume is for the pleasure of those who have honored 
me with their friendship, and have not thought unworthy 
of appreciation these heirs of my youthful invention. And 
with all save them I am scarcely less than an intruder. 

But, if there be one, though personally unknown to the 
author, who, forgetting its faults and juvenile inconsist- 
encies, can while away an otiose hour in pleasant peru- 
sal of its contents, he will not only feel thankful for this 
foreign appreciation, but happy in the acquisition of such 
honor. 

To even intimate that I have been wholly original 
would be simply absurd; for, verily, "there is no new 
thing under the sun." However, though I have imitated, 
at length, those authors with whom I have been most 
conversant, I have not been one of those numerous pla- 
giarists — reaping where I have not sown, and gathering 
where I have not strewed. 

In the conception of the greater part of the subjects, I 
claim some originality. 

I am not altogether unconscious that a volume of this 
character, by one to "fame unknown," launched upon 
the high sea of literature, will have many an adverse 
wave to buffetj and many a Scylla and Charybdis to en- 
counter, not having the pilot, Experience, to point the 
way, or a friendly beacon to light it to a hospitable haven. 

Still I feel confident that it will not fail to elicit the 
charity of many, and, with this hope, leave it at the 
mercy of wind and wave. 

Austin, Texas. 



THE YEARS OF YOUTH. 



TO EMMIE. 

IV/TY sister, my sweet sister, thou 

Art left alone of many a charm. 
This heavy heart of grief to warm, 
And teach it yet to bow ! 

To thee in lonely hours I turn ! 
In thee a vital solace find 
To cool the frenzy of that mind 

Which else would ceaseless burn ! 

Thou art the last of many a gem 

Which deck'd the crown of early life, 
And made it with such radiance rife — 

A lonely diadem ! 

A diadem ! Yes, thou to me 
Art richer, rarer, brighter far, 
Than e'en the fairest lighted star 

Which night flings on the sea. 



TO EMMIE. 

And thou art dearer still when comes, 
On memory's wings, the putrid past- 
For o'er my soul its shadows cast 

Remembrance of its tombs ! 

Parental tombs, which spread a night 
Of sorrow o'er our roseate days, 
And hid in gloom their purest rays- 

A parent's smile of light ! 



A parent's smile ! oh, heaven, the l)liss 
That it doth lend to childish heart ! 
If there a feeling pure may start, 

'Tis then and 'tis of this. 

For I have known that ebb and flow ; 
But 'tis not now — forgive the tear — 
Yet will I weep, for musing here 

Tells me no more I know ! 

And we, sweet sister, once did feel 
Such halcyon joys around us cast, 
Like dreams of fancy flitting past 

With rapture to reveal ; 

But they are gone ! and ne'er again 
Sliall from the happier years roll back 
The clouds wliich left their orient black, 

Or make it bri<dit as then. 



TO EMMIE. 13 

Yet, be it so ! for still in thee 

There lives a hope which cannot die, 
While life-fire lights thy darksome eye, 

And lets it beam on me. 

Oh, happy hope ! Oh, blissful boon ! 

A sister's fair, unfading love — 

A spark empyrean from above 
To change my night to noon ! 

And while its gleam o'er life shall shine. 
Fate's darkest frown shall not be felt. 
But 'neath its radiance grief shall melt, 

And brightest bliss be mine ! 
October, 1871. 




DUKE D'ENGHIEN. 

" By torchlight the unfortunate prince was led down the winding 
staircase which led into a fosse of the chateau. There he saw, 
through the gray mist of the morning, a file of soldiers drawn up 
for his execution. Calmly he cut off a lock of his hair, and, taking 
his watch from his pocket, requested an officer to solicit Josephine 
to present these tokens of his love to the Princess de Rohan." — 
Abbott's Life of Napoleon, vol. i., chap, xxvii. 

'HTWAS midnight ; and dark rolling clouds obscured 
The fair-faced moon and all her glittering train; 
And now and then a flash of lightning pour'd 
Its flames volcanic on the nightly plain ; 
And Heaven's artillery, as if in disdain, 
Like the deep notes of some far-sounding knell, 
Fell on the ear of night, with a deep mystic spell. 

The elements seem'd fraught with warfare, as 
When on Heaven's plain engaged those angel hosts 
In supernatural conflict, like a mass 
Of fire and billow on the Stygian coasts ! — 
A night when hell seem'd happiest in his boasts. 
And demons trod the earth, in proud array, 
Sovran of souls, which were beyond their power by day ! 

That was a night which was while bloody war 
Had razed proud cities and crush'd brave hearts; 



DUKE D'ENGHIEN. 15 

When dark destruction, in his gory car, 
Had long swept earth, as death the menial marts ; 
And still no surcease to the deadly darts 
Gave peace to earth, or smiles to Heaven gave — 
But death, despair, destruction, and the gory grave ! 

Oh, what a night was that ! A night of death ! 
While sleeping, wrapp'd in visionary love. 
Lay Enghien, heedless of a foeman's breath. 
Spurning that watch which despots base approve. 
And oft thro' halls palatial ceaseless move; 
But there, unmindful of or friend or foe. 
He dream'd of bliss, and not of fast approaching woe. 

The empress of his heart, too, heedless slept, 
Upon her royal couch, in splendor laid ; 
Nor dream'd of tears (Iho' many a queen hath wept, 
When pomp of royalty their forms display'd;) 
But there she lay in visions undismay'd; 
Yet hapless slumbers — hapless dreams are hers — 
Only to wake to woe — to wash away in tears ! 

Yet who is there his destiny may know? 
And who conjecture what his doom may be ? 
All still will hope, tho' every hour bring woe, 
For life gives hope, as time eternity : 
E'en those whose hearts are heaviest, like the sea, 
Will still rebound to meet their moon of joy, 
Tho' it but hope-light lend — reality destroy ! 

Now was Duke D'Enghien's dream, protracted, broke 
By iron tread of foemen thro' the hall ; 



1 6 DUKE nENGHIEN. 

By foemen's harsh salute, and harsher stroke 
Of clashing steel, which, echoing 'long the wall. 
Despair foreboded like death's dismal call! 
He woke — and as a more than servile slave 
They bore him bound, not as the bravest of the brave. 

The princess heard the midnight wail sweep by 
Upon the trembling air, and as a knell, 
She caught the sound, and knew — she deem'd not why — 
Yet love prophetic did the crisis tell ! 
Her star-eyed hope was flown, and, like a spell, 
Despair her soul seized, and she sank beneath 
That weight of misery, which seem'd not less than death ! 

Then, from that land where blue-eyed beauties roam. 
The land of chivalry — the Runic Rhine — 
They bore him to his distant native home — 
Fair France — the hapless prey of war and wine. 
But, ah ! who may his destiny divine ? 
Is treason his? A nation answers, yea! 
Then fmish'd is his doom — his life-light must decay. 

The rosy-finger'd morn had not yet sleek'd 
The ebon down of night, but still, unmoved, 
Upon the world's black bough, she perch'd all bleakM 
By wintry winds which icily still roved, 
Like wandering spirits lost and unbeloved, 
Along the mountain, when a phalanx form'd 
To chill the ebbing blood which Enghien's bosom warm'd. 

His prayer for pardon had, alas, been vain ! 
For tardy was the j^lea, and late it came 



DUKE D'ENGIIIEN. 17 

To him who ever wept above the slain ; 
Forgave even treachery, as he warr'd for fame, 
Who sued for peace, and even pride did tame 
That bh)od might not be shed ; but fate forbade 
That Enghien should be freed, and thus great nations glad. 

So at that dismal hour, within a vale 
As dismal as the shadowy vale of death. 
The warriors paused, and not a nerve did quail, 
And not a sigh portray'd an anxious breath; 
But all was still as flowers upon the lieath. 
A light from one cold glimmering lamp did shed 
A deeper awe upon that scene so like the dead. 

Then was the silence broke by him the doom'd : 
" Take this !" and forth a golden chain he drew, 
Which even for a while the darkness 'lumed, 
" And give to her whose breast is nobly true. 
Who well can feel what woman's heart can brew. 
The plebeian emperor's spouse, and pray that she 
Will bear this home to her who long shall weep for me !" 

Thus spake the hapless duke his last desire; 
Then, kneeling low, unfalteringly he said, 
" I die for my king and for P'rance — then fire !" 
The volley flew of unrelenting lead. 
And he, young Enghien, fell a martyr dead ! 
And there he slept, in turf unhonor'd long. 
Till times more happy wash'd away the truthless wrong. 

Brave was his soul, and noble was his aim ; 
No base conspirator against the great — 



[8 



DUKE HENGHIEN. 



On battle-fields he fought 'gainst rising fame, 
Nor tried in treason his high pride to sate ; 
And when it came he sternly bow'd to fate, 
And met his doom as ever do the brave — 
High glory's silver tide his name shall ever lave ! 
July, 1871. 




IN ME MORI AM. 

" Happy are they who die in their youth when their renown 
around them." — Ossian. 

/^N Manassas' field so gory, 
'Neath a canopy of glory, 
Fought brave Jackson's gallant band ; 

And amid the din of battle, 

'Mid the fatal musket's rattle, 
Many died to save their land. 

In this conflict stood my brother, 

Fighting bravely, as the other 
Sons of our dear sunny land ; 

And within this three days' struggle 

He had watch'd the blood to guggle. 
Warm from hearts, to stain the sand. 

But the last day, how ill-fated 

To that gallant heart elated 
"With the hope of gaining all ! 

For, when the foe was flying 

In dismay, o'er dead and dying. 
Thro' him pierced a fatal ball ! 

It was just when day was fading. 
When the pall of night was shading 



20 IN MEMORIAM. 

Earth and battle-field with gloom ; 
And upon that sun in sorrow 
Many gazed, for on the morrow 

They must fill the silent tomb. 

But, his dauntless soul unfearing, 
E'en in death his lips were cheering 

" Forward — onward — save the day !" 
These the last words that he utter'd. 
And as still the cannon mutter'd, 

Pass'd his soul from earth away! 

And still on that field he slumbers, 
Silent, with the dust of numbers 

Of the friend and foe that fell ; 
And no more the musket's rattle 
Will awake that form to battle 

For the land he loved so well ! 



0^ -^V^®^- ^ 



TO E. T. 

" Tecum vivere amem, tecum obeam libens." — Horat. 

T^AIR as the' moonbeam's tender light 
Which smiles upon the ocean blue — 
Sweet as the rose-bud bathed in dew- 
Lovely as is the star-gemm'd night 

Which doth thro' heaven in beauty move — 
Pure as the prayer thou waft'st above — 
Art tluni! then who could help but love? 

I love, and 'tis no idle dream 
That lives undying in my soul, 

But is an ever-ebbing stream 

That onward flows without control. 

And when the sparks of thy dark eyes 
Beam on me with their magic spell, 

I feel the waves to higher rise, 
And, like an ocean, wildly swell. 

And when upon me thou dost smile — 
Tho' rarely, yet I better deem 

The charm, and its enchanting wile 
Makes e'en this world empyrean seem. 



22 



TO E. T. 



Then, oh, believe that I do love ! 

That all this heart is wholly thine ; 
For were I in yon heaven above. 

With angels, I would for thee pine ! 




TO THE SAME. 

T^HINE eyes are lit with more than mortal fire, 
And darkly in their midnight splendor shine ; 

Emitting radiance oft that seems divine — 
Now glowing softly, now elate with ire, 
Now wakening hope, now bidding hope retire. 

As Fancy forms and then destroys her shrine, 

So shifting feelings move that breast of thine, 
Thou goddess of my heart, and sole desire! 

No eyes but midnight-rolling eyes can bind 
A spell, enchanting, round this heart of mine; 

The soft, sweet eyes of blue may sometimes find 
My soul in admiration at their shrine. 

But I must worship such as once consign' d 
Proud Troy to ruins — such eyes, such eyes as tJiine ! 
1870. 



23 



THE MIGHT HAVE BEEN. 

T^HINE image bright shall ever live 

Within my heart's unchanging cell, 

And time shall only serve to give 

A brighter lustre to the spell; 

E'en absence never can impel 

My soul to wander from its queen, 

Tho' fate hath long since rung the knell 
Of cherish'd hope, by hands unseen, 
And sung a requiem o'er " What might have been. 




lANTHE. 

A DREAM. 

'T^HE soul is a Paradise, amid whose rich bowers 
In beauty are blooming the rarest of flowers ; 
And its sunshine is smiles, whose delicate ray 
Diffuses a lustre more bright than the day; 
And joy is the dew which, like orient gems, 
Sparkles bright on their leaves and gives life to their stems. 

Delightful Elysium ! more charming in bloom 
Than that which was wither'd by Heaven's sad doom; 
And, like that, in its bowers a temple divine 
For Love hath been built, and the heart is its shrine ; 
And its priestess is Hope, whose nymphical smile 
Hath more power to lure than her god to beguile. 

But, alas! has this Eden no autumn whose breath 
Blights its summer-blown bloom, and wraps it in death? 
Does no winter, with storms of unhappiness, lower. 
And, obscuring its sunshine, destroy every flower? 
Are the dreams which in spring-time made radiant its sky 
Never dimm'd in their glow — never lost to the eye? 

Why question of me ? Ask the aged in years, 
Whose lives have been nurtured in anguish and tears; 
Whose brows bear the marks and resentments of time, 
And whose hearts are not free from the' infection of crime. 
3 25 



26 lANTIIE. 

These, these may impart what my heart has not known, 
For their harvest is come — do they reap what was sown ' 

But let me not now, with reflections like these, 
Make unhappy that theme which is writ but to please. 
For, lanthe, thy beauty, which ever hath wrought 
In my heart like a magic, and lived in each thought. 
Not content with its rule o'er the mind when awake. 
Hath entranced it in slumbers with dreams for thy sake. 

And this is the dream which the goddess of vision 
Reveal'd unto me : — In thy soul's bright Elysian 
Methought I was led, by thy welcoming tone, 
'Mid its bowers enchanted to wander alone. 
It was morning, methought, and the sunshine and dew, 
Which gave to the flowers so lovely a hue. 
Were blended in one, like the smile and the tear, 
Which gleam'd in thine eye when beholding me near. 

But when, in my fancy, my footsteps had stray'd 
Thro' all the bright paths which thy virtues had made, 
Thy voice gave me welcome to enter that fane 
Which no mortal before was allow' d to profane. 
But only the footsteps of angels had trod 
Thro' its sacredness, fit for the shrine of a god ; 
And its secrets no oracle yet had reveal'd, 
For the book of its fate had forever been seal'd. 

Oh, what was my joy ! What transport divine 
Elated my heart while beholding that shrine ! 
But to picture its splendor a Raphael must paint. 
For the pen hath not power, and words are too faint. 
Yet thus, while my spirit was wild with delight. 
From an altar which still had been hidden from sight 



lANTHE. 27 

A veil thou didst take — oh, ethereal bliss! 
Had my soul ever dream'd of such glory as this ? 
For there, wreathed in flowers the brightest in hue, 
Was my name ! But, scarcely believing it true, 
*' A dream in a dream," I whisper'd, when thou, 
Who unmoved and in silence had watch'd me till now, 
Softly smiling, replied, " Ahit 'a dream in a dream,' 
But an offering to thee of love and esteem !" 

Thus rapture was mine which gods in their state 
Might envy, not knowing devotion so great ! 

But, alas ! in that moment so fraught with delight, 
A change swept my vision with termagant blight. 
Those flowers, that late on the altar were blown 
In freshness of bloom, had faded and gone ! 
I then turn'd to thee — oh, Mercy, forbear ! 
Thy face, late so lovely, was pale with despair; 
And thine eye, which had blended the smile and the tear 
In token of joy when beholding me near. 
Now was glaring in frenzy, and seem'd to upbraid 
And curse me alone for the wreck that was made ! 

My lips tried to speak, but no utterance could give 
The silence to break, or Hope to revive. 
Who, pallid in death, on the altar was lying, 
While her god near her wept, tho' himself lay a dying ! 

Thus my spirit, dismay'd at the frown of despair 
Which had mantled in gloom all the loveliness there. 
Was scarce less despairing ; but waked from its trance, 
By breaking the spell which was caught from thy glance, 
As, touch'd with new life, I grasp'd at thy form. 
But it fled from my presence with shrieks of alarm. 



28 lANTIIE. 

I follow'd, but vain was my utmost endeavor, 
For gone from my sight was thy image forever! 

Oh, tell me, lanthe, thou fairest and best, 
Is this but a vision awaked in the bi-east 
By the fiend of delirium to harrow up fear 
And to wither those hopes which to life are most dear? 
Oh, answer! and let me from anguish be free, 
Or finish that doom which is destined for me! 




STANZAS 

ON THE DEATH OF KLEBER JONES, COUSIN TO 
THE AUTHOR. 

'X'HERE'S a lone and restless longing 

In our stricken hearts to-night ; 
For a form we deeply cherish' d 
In the arms of death has perish'd 
Ever more from mortal sight ! 

And to-morrow we must bear him 

To the sad and silent tomb, 
Yet his image in each bosom 
Like a flower must brightly blossom, 

Fresh forever in its bloom. 

Let the winding-sheet be taken 

From his face a moment now, 
Let us view once more those features. 
Purest, noblest of earth's creatures. 

Let us press again that brow. 

It is done ! and tears of anguish 

Gather in each watchful eye ; 
Yet we well may weep, for never 
Did the hand of Fate dissever 

Such a richly golden tie ! 



30 



STANZAS. 

Who can view his life, and wonder 

That he thus so early died, 
When the good are always taken 
Early from the breasts that waken 

Deep for them affection's tide ? 

Heaven gave to him his mission — 
It was short, yet goodly done; 

And when ended all was ended, 

And his soul above ascended, 
And a crown of glory won ! 

Noble Kleber ! hapless Kleber ! 

Loved by all who knew thee well, 
Friends are round thee weeping sadly, 
And each heart with grief is madly 

Breaking, with no hope to quell. 

Like a young and brilliant meteor 
Burning thro' the nightly sky. 

Did thy young life shed its radiance, 

Soft as music's latest cadence, 
On the forms that pass'd thee by. 

But sleep on, embalm' d in slumbers. 

Where no thought, or dream, may come ! 
We may weep, yet tears of gladness 
Still will chase away the sadness. 
For thou art in Heaven — at home ! 
April, 1871. 



TO EULALIE. 



CWEET Eulalie, a fairer flower 
Than thou wast never born ; 
To change the sad to happy hour 
Is thine alone. 

Thy soft eyes, gleaming with a glow 
Which scarce of mortal seems, 

Can make the darkest-bosom' d woe 
A realm of beams ! 

And thy sweet voice, so sqft and low. 

Like music of a lute. 
Awakes within the l^-east a flow 

Of rapture mute. 

And as I gaze upon thy face, 

So lovely and so fair, 
I mark the rarest, purest grace 

Which earth can bear. 

And on my heart its smile hath wrought 

An effigy so bright, 
That time, tho' with effacement fraught, 

Shall fail to blight. 



TO EULALIE. 

For thou, sweet Eulalie, wast made 

To charm away the care 
"Which else would my dark soul pervade, 

And canker there. 

Then live on in thy purity, 

Thou fair as saint above ! 
A guardian angel unto me, 

And Queen of Love ! 



"q 



f^^^ 



V 



SONNETS TO NIGHT. 
I. 

IV/r OST glorious Night ! with moon and stars bedight 
The master-piece of God's imperial hand ; 

Sublime thou art, and beautiful and grand ! 
Creatures of heaven might view thee with delight, 
And strike their harps in praise of such a sight ! 

The deep-blue ocean may defy control, 

And in his anger o'er proud navies roll, 
Or shake his hoary locks, and man affright, 

Yet still he bounds with joy thy kiss to greet, 
And owns thee goddess, thou fair moon of light ! 

With hopes, with loves, with joys thou art replete; 
With thee bright Fancy fondly takes her flight; 

The nightingale to thee pours music sweet. 
And I do love thee, fair Enchantress, Night ! 

II. 

E'en when thy gorgeous sheen in darkness lies, 
And furious storms obscure thy sky serene, 
Then art thou most sublime, and even then 
I love to watch thee, see the clouds arise. 
And hear the thunders peal along the skies, 

33 



34 SONNETS TO NIGHT. 

Now low and deep, now loud with deafening clash, 

And view with joy the fiery lightning's flash, 
So darkly glaring thro' the storm it flies. 

Ah ! 'tis a wildly glorious gloomy sight ! 
Who hath not felt his own soul grander while 

He watch'd its power from some commanding height ? 
The dark, the fierce, imperious, frantic smile 

Of midnight storm, rejoicing in his might. 
And laying in ruins full many an antique pile ! 

November, 1870. 




TO LILIE LENORE. 

/^H, Lilie Lenore ! 

Thy sweet little form, 
With its magical spell, 

Takes my feelings by storm, 

And my soul bears along 

Thro' some fairy-kept dell, 
Where the muses' soft song 

Every sorrow doth quell. 

And thy beautiful eye, 

With its nymphical hue, 
From the clear summer sky 

Caught its opulent blue. 

And on me when it falls. 

As sweet dimples doth chase 
Each other in glee 
O'er thy angelic face, 

Overpower'd I feel. 

And my bosom swells high : 
Oh, could I reveal 
What is felt in a sigh ! 

35 



36 TO LILIE LENO 

Thou then might'st conceive 
How madly I love ; 

And I know then thy heart 
Would in sympathy move ! 

For thou art a flower 

That blooms in my heart ; 

And thou of my life 
Art the loveliest part. 

But, Lilie Lenore, 

"Why essay I to write ? 

Human pen is too weak 
My love to indite ! 
April, 1870. 




THE JUDGMENT. 

'X*HE Saviour! the Saviour! the only loved Son, 

As morn on the orient resplendently bright, 
Comes forth in his glory, his season is done. 

And redemption once given hath faded in night ! 

The trumpet ! the trumpet of God sounding deep 

From the vault of high Heaven shakes the low living 
Earth ; 

And nations awake from their long dreamless sleep. 
Confounded with awe at the great Judgment's birth ! 

The trumpet ! the trumpet of God sounds again ; 

And the heaven-born host comes elated with love, 
While their mystical harps, in one swelling strain. 

The fabric celestial with melody move ! 

The trumpet ! the trumpet ! is echoed once more 

Thro' all heights, and all depths, and all oceans afar. 

And the sin-stricken souls, innumerable, pour. 
Distorted with fear, to the Great Judgment bar ! 

The sentence ! the sentence ! oh, hear ye the curse ! 

'Tis the voice of the King, and his anger is high; 
And that loud-wailing throng thro' the distance disperse, 

And gloom gathers o'er, and forever they die ! 

37 



38 THE JUDGMENT. 

" Oh, Mercy! oh, Mercy !" is ringing aloud 

From the angels which guarded those spirits of yore, 

As they gaze on that ruin which horrors enshroud, 
And weep with compassion, " Oh, lost evermore !" 

And downward ! now downward ! irremediably gone ! 

Thro' the blackest of gloom sinks this death-living host, 
From the eye of e'en Pity to wander alone. 

And where woe and despair shriek, " Eternally lost !" 



4M»^^ 






THE GOLDEN OPPORTUNITY. 

OPRING is coming on in beauty, 

Hail'd by ail the glorious earth ; 
And her voice is sweetly ringing 
With the songs of joy and mirth. 

And her path is strewn with flowers, 
Garlands wreathed about her brow. 

Robed in Nature's richest costume 
She is coming gaily now. 

All the world is up and doing, 

With a heart as light and free 
As the little birds that carol 

Round them in melodious glee. 

And the' industrious farmers early 

Hasten onward to the field. 
For this is the time to labor 

If their harvest much would yield. 

If abundance they would gather 

Of the fruit which autumn bears, 
They must labor now, or never. 
For the Present 's only theirs. 
* -X- ->fr * * * * * 

39 



40 THE GOLDEN OPPORTUNITY. 

Youth, to you this time is given — 
This bright spring-time of your life; 

It you must improve, or falter 
In this world's unkindly strife. 



Let not petty trifles turn you. 
Such as maidens' smiles of art ; 

But look thoughtful down the future 
With a proud, defiant heart. 

What is life without distinction ? 

What a name without a name 
That can rest in blazing letters 

On the tablet W7'oiight of Fame ? 

Would you die and be forgotten, 
Like the ripples of a stream ? 

Or the bare and baseless fabric 
Of a sluggard's idle dream? 

Then know this : Without exertion 
You will not behold your name 

Blazon'd on that banner floating 
O'er the battlements of Fame ! 

Ask, where shall my name be written ? 

Then but mark the loftiest height ; 
Aim at this, o'ercome each barrier, 

Reach the pinnacle, and write I 



THE GOLDEN OPPORTUNITY. 



41 



Write by merit, not dishonor, 
Nor by avaricious wealth ; 

For the wreath of glory fadeth 

When 'tis won by treachei"ous stealth. 
February, 1870. 




THE HEROINES OF HISTORY. 
I. 

"D ACK rolls the cloud of years ! and to the eye, 

Eager for wisdom, rolls an orient by. 
No bright sun, rising on the azure way, 
Is yet beheld to fleck the misty gray ; 
But stars unnumber'd, bright in every clime, 
Beam forth and gem the glorious sky of Time. 
Some, fair as Sirius rising on the night. 
Enchant the soul, and wrap it in delight ; 
Yet others, like the Pleiad sisters, shine 
Faint in their splendor, tho' not less divine ; 
And some, perchance, like one of them at even, 
Have wander' d truant from the heights of heaven ! 

Oh, thou mysterious Past ! sublime in deeds 
Which give to thee the brightest of all meeds. 
With rapture now I hail thee, and implore 
The deep-hid secrets of thy latent lore, — 
Thine aid in song to one who in thy light 
Would bathe his spirit in aspiring flight. 

II. 
To thee, thou first and fairest Bride of Song, 
The minstrel's harp is waked ! To thee belong 
The praise of distant ages, and the strain 
Which, echoing down the years, was not in vain 
42 



THE HEROINES OF HISTORY. 43 

To prove to man that wisdom, wealth, and power 
Are naught to him when Woman claims the hour. 

When the perfidious Shepherd rashly bore, 
In Idean ships, from Grecian shore, 
The hostess Helen, Nereus on the deep 
Diffused a calm, and bade the waves to sleep, 
That he might sing the dire and dismal fate 
Which did upon that treacherous deed await, 
And sound thro' ages this imm.ortal strain, 
" Proud Troy is lost, and lost old Priam's reign !" 
In vain shalt thou, O Paris ! with thy love, 

The passing hours in happy dalliance prove ; 

In vain shall Venus lend her aid, and spread 

Her regis round thee in thy adulterous bed ; 

For, lo ! there comes from mighty Grecia's coast 

An injured husband, with avenging host, 

And Pallas, raging in her fallen pride. 

With chariot and with fury seeks thy bride. 

And tho' Achilles, famed in deeds of war, 

Shall long procrastinate thy evil star, 

Yet after storms of certain winters pour 

Their hurtless fury on thy joyous shore, 

Achaian flames shall o'er fair Ilion rise, 

And sweep her glory from beneath the skies !* 

III. 

Next hail to thee, dark-eyed Egyptian, hail ! 
Thou second Venus ! What did power avail 



* Horace, Ode XV., Bk 



44 THE HEROINES OF HISTORY. 

Against thy wiles? What did a Caisar show ? 
A heart as weak as when the turbid flow 
Of threatening waves impell'd his soul to shrink 
And cry out, " Help me, Cassius, or I sink !" 
Courageous Ceesar! proud, and stern, and brave ! 
Poor Antony, made the Enchantress' slave ! 
To this the highest praise and honor flow ; 
Rome's mightiest monarch all the ages know; 
To that, the scorn or shame of time is tost — 
And wherefore? Ay ! on fatal Actium's coast 
His star of glory sank in blood and wave, 
And that once so, he always was the slave. 

To thee, fair Queen, and to thy charms, but one 
Proved equal still, and that was Juda's son,* 
Forsooth, he did " out-herod Herod" then. 
Or had a soul unlike to other men. 
A prey to every passion which can cling 
Around the heart, and goad to crime a king. 
Yet did the regis then of Pallas guard 
Him, as Ulysses' sonf when tempted hard. 

Thou couldst not, with thy Stygian glances, start 
One green-eyed monster in his moveless heart. 
Thou camest, thou saw'st, but to conquer still 
Was not of thee, or break his stubborn will. 
How marvelous was this ! Had from thee gone 
Those wild enchantments which were thine alone ? 
Or did the lovely face of his loved queen, 
Poor Mariamne, come before him then ? 



* Herod the Great. See Josephus, vol. i., bk. xv. 
t Telemachus, in Fenclon. 



THE HEROINES OF HISTORY. 45 

Why ask of thee ? 'Tis thou, O king ! must say : 
Was all thy love then hers whom thou didst after slay ? 

IV. 

Aurelian ! didst thou spurn, at first, with scorn, 
The triumphs of a female warrior* born. 
And in some distant province still command 
Thy legions bold to march upon her land. 
To wave their eagles, in triumphant pride, 
Above that power which had e'en Rome defied ? 
In sooth ! but still the panting courier came, 
And bade thee rise and makef defense for fame. 

Like mist before the rising king of cjay. 
His mighty legions had been swept away ; 
Like flying cjlouds before the tempest's breath, 
They fled from her who bore the seal of death; 
And thou, proud monarch, with remorse and shame, 
At length came forth 'gainst woman's rising fame ; 
And tho' thy pride had whisper'd, *' One fell blow 
Shall sweep her power away, and leave her low," 
Still thou didst find that where her arms were seen 
She rode in splendor there, a peerless queen ! 
And when against her thy avenging car 
Swept, like a flame, along the path of war. 
Her courage gleam' d amid the mad affray. 
Like meteors flashing in the eyes of day. 
Thy pride gave o'er, then genius lit thy brow, 
And conquer' d her who was not known to bow. 

* Zenobia, 



46 THE HEROINES OF HISTORY. 

Bold Queen ! how did Ambition lure thy soul 
The waves of war against old Rome to roll ? 
How did the dreams of glory fill thy breast 
With such wild madness as this lofty quest ? 
To dream, to hope, that thou couldst stem the tide 
Of carnage fierce and 'gainst a monarch ride, 
A monarch who upon the proudest throne 
Of all the world sat, like a god, alone ! 
And pictured to thy frenzied fancy how 
Thy fame should rise, and he be made to bow, 
That thou in thy triumphant car shouldst ride 
Along the streets of Rome, in queenly pride. 
But how, alas ! to thee, as oft to man, 
Did glory prove a dream, as life a span ! 

Thou didst in visionary grandeur sweep 
Thro' that imperial city ! Didst thou sleep? 
Ah! no; Ambition mock'd thee, for, behold ! 
That chariot which thou saw'st triumphant roll'd 
Within those Capitolian walls, and thou 
The victor crown'd with diademed brow, 
Was fame's illusion! It moved there, l)ut, lo ! 
Thou wast a captive unto Rome and woe. 
And that high monarch whom, in vision, thou 
Beheldst in homage and in suppliance bow. 
Now leads thee on behind thy regal car, 
To grace the triumph of a glorious war. 

Ambition, what art thou? A devilish flame, 
That makes the soul incessant thirst for fame, 
And lures it, with thy phantom beacon, where 
Unslaked it dies in frenzy and despair ! 



THE HEROINES OF HISTORY. 47 

This is Ambition ! Ay, behold it here : 

She saw a world— she grasp' d— she found a bier ! 

V. 

When thro' fair France her furious foemen pour'd, 
And devastation stalk'd, uncheck'd, abroad, 
In jnnocency slept the queen of war, 
Unknown, unsung; but as the radiant star 
Of Bethlehem proclaim'd Messiah come, 
So she arose a heraldry of doom 
To foul oppression, and brought freedom home. 
Maid of Orleans ! in sooth the queen of war ; 
For where thy banner waved, like light, afar, 
Victoiy and glory shone, and bade the storm 
Of war to lull before thy conquering arm ! 
Thou wast no witch ! nor yet a ghost of death, 
To blight ten thousand wiih one withering breath ; 
But guilty Superstition, when thy form 
Shone thro' the darkness of the battle's storm. 
Like ghosts of night before the eye of day. 
In terror fled from carnage and affray. 

But, hapless Heroine ! ere thy gentle life 
Had been inured to country-guarding strife, 
The king of terrors rose upon thy way. 
And blasted freedom from the arms of day ! 
Yes, freedom ; for it did not light thy breast— 
Thyself wast freedom, and its cause thy quest. 

VI. 
Thou wast no warrior, England's proudest queen. 
But yet the greatest which all time has seen. 



48 THE HEROINES OF niSTOR\. 

Tho' vain and haughty, proud and envious still, 
Yet hadst thou, like thy sire, an iron will. 

In thy fair reign behold what genius shone 
Amid the gloom which ignorance long had known. 
The music of the Father- Bard''- still fell 
Along thy shores with soft symphonious swell ; 
Aspiring youth the echo caught, and flung 
His fingers o'er the lyre that lay unstrung. 
Attuned anew, it waked with music deep; 
For, lo ! the Prince of Song its chords did sweep. 

Prosperity arose, and wealth and power, 
Vaunting in pride, proclaim'd as theirs the hour. 
Thy great dominion, spreading still afar. 
Defiance bade to e'en the rage of war. 
And thou, fair maiden Queen, beheld thy name 
Emblazon' d first among the few of fame. 
But, ah ! foul Envy, with his venom'd tooth, 
Gnaw'd at thy heart, and made thee murder truth; 
Made thee forget that in an evil hour 
The storms of wrath did o'er thine own head lower 
And would have doom'd thee, had not Mercy come 
And touch' d the heart of her who bore the name 
Of even Bloody ! Yet when thou didst hold 
The regal sceptre and the seal of gold, 
Thou didst not mercy show to one who stood 
Powerless in thy power, but thirsted for her blood. 

Oh, cruel deed ! oh, unrelenting doom ! 
In exchange for a throne to give — a tomb ! 



* Chaucer. 



THE HEROINES OF HISTORY. 49 

Ah ! fate, thou art inscrutable ! To man 
Thou seem'st unjust in many a secret plan. 
Behold the mystery of this dark decree- 
Withheld the doom of one, that she might be 
The murderer of another ! Teach us how 
To seeming wrongs in silence mute to bow ! 

VII. 

The purple clouds have once again in gloom 
Hid from the eye the orient in its bloom, 
And those great secrets which the dead Past hold 
Have been, like dying day, in darkness roll'd. 
The eager eye in vain attempts to peer 
Amid the night chaotic, and with fear 
Recoils within the soul, perchance to dream 
Of dim Futurity, and its dark stream 

Gliding along life's shore, and bearing fast 

It and the Present to the wakeless Past ! 
In dreams of fancy I beheld arise 

The bygone years ; with rapture and surprise 

I saw awake the heroines of old time. 

And told their deeds of mercy or of crime. 

They reign'd o'er empires, but have vanish'd now, 

And only deck the Past's sepulchral brow ! 

VIII. 
But, hail ! thou Pleroine of my Heart ! To thee 
The lyre is still awaked, and e'er shall be. 
To thee its first young song did proudly swell, 
And of thy beauty to the Muses tell ; 



50 THE HEROINES OF HISTORY. 

And now, with other queens, it bids thee rise, 
And test the lustre of thy darkling eyes, 
'Twould paint thy graces, but the pen gives o'er! 
For words are idle, and would speak no more ; 
And Fancy falters in her venturous flight, 
And only prays to bask beneath the light 
Which from thy loveliness in radiance beams. 
And there in slumber rest, a child in dreams! 



"^^^^ 



TO MARY. 

C WEET Mary ! the fates have decreed 

That we from each other should part ; 
And the' thy fair bosom shall bleed, 
And sad grow thy desolate heart, 

Yet thy grief shall not be alone ; 

My heart shall respond to thy woe, 
And, when from my Mary I'm gone. 

No other fair idol shall know. 

May Heaven's high Ruler with love 

Thy pathway from evil defend; 
May pleasures thy heart ever move, 

And grief with thy joy never blend. 

May happiness gleam o'er thy soul. 
And peace be its bright guiding star. 

With e'en not a trouble to roll 
O'er thy spirit, its quiet to mar. 

This ever shall be the fond prayer 
Which I for my Mary shall breathe, 

Tho' fate should forbid that I share 

The smiles which for me she would wreathe. 

51 



52 



TO MARY. 



And tho' I may roam far away 

From her, 'neath some fair alien sky, 

My heart shall revert to the day 

When I first felt the glance of her eye. 

For how could I ever forget 

A being so gentle and true ? 
This is all that I have to regret. 
That we sever soon, but adieu ! 
May, 1S70. 




STANZAS 

ON THE DEATH OF ADAH ISAACS MENKEN. 

" Oh, I am wild — wild ! 

Angels of the weary-hearted, come to thy child. 

Spread your white wings over me ! 
Tenderly, tenderly, 
Lovingly, lovingly. 
Plead for me, plead for me 1" 

A/r ISERERE ! Miserere ! 

Oh, wildly chant to-night! 
For she, who was the Queen of Song, 
Has gone to join the sainted throng 
In the far-off Realm of Light, 

Her life was young, yet hope was dead ; 

And only love was there, — 
A living love to light the gloom 
Which gather'd darkly round the tomb 

Of her so wildly fair ! 

A fairer form was never seen, 

A lovelier face unknown ; 
Yet Sorrow early sought her breast, 
And slowly robb'd it of its rest, 

Till she and it were one. 



54 STANZAS. 

Her " Heritage" was wretchedness — 
" Cold friends and causeless foes !" 
Yet she was Fancy's favorite child, 
And Grace and Genius round her smiled, 
Like stars on nightly snows. 

And Beauty gave her every charm 

Which nymph or houri had ; 
Yet envious Fortune gave no gem, 
Nor deck'd her brow with diadem, 
But left her lone and sad. 

Wild and weird was her every thought. 

And wondrous strange her dreams ; 
Her mind explored e'en depths unknown, 
The Stygian shore, the Aiden zone, 
Till her song a spectre seems. 

Yet she early learn'd to blindly bow 

At Love's seductive shrine ; 
But her life was cursed, for her idol fled, 
And she was left to misery wed, — 

To weep and to repine ! 

Then let us sing her own sad lay, 

A requiem for the dead, — 
That " year ago" when her heart was won, 
When a heartless wretch her life undone. 

And left her to misery wed. 

Oh, Queen of Song ! how sad the strain 
W^hich thy wild harp impels ! 



STANZAS. 55 

It charms the soul with its airy wile. 
And transforms life to a dream, or smile 
Which lives in mystic spells. 

Miserere ! Miserere ! 

Then wildly chant to-night ! 
For the Queen of Song has pass'd from earth. 
And seraphs hail her heavenly birth 

In that rosy Realm of Light ! 




AN IMPROMPTU LAMPOON ON 
FRIEND JACK. 

A S all may discern, young Ralta's a rhymist ; 

In English he soars, but in Scotch is sublimest ; 
And like a proud eagle he raises his pinions, 
And flits beyond earth to old Fancy's dominions. 
Be his theme e'er so humble, he rises aloft, — 
Now wild with enchantment, now tender and soft : 
He eclipses in beauty the strains of a Scott, 
And poor Burns, tho' exalted, must now be forgot. 
And Milton's in danger! Oh, Byron, awake, 
And again strike the harp for your own glory's sake — • 
What ! are its strings broke ? Then your fame must grow 

black, 
For, behold, a great poet beats hard on your track; 
And with champings and brayings he comes like a Jack 
And naught but a Muse dares encumber his back! 



56 




LINES TO . 

ACCOMPANYING A BOUQUET, 

'pHESE fragile flowers I send to thee, 

An emblem of that hope so fair 
That bloom'd enrapturing unto me 

When first I saw thy beauty rare. 
But as they soon shall fade away, 

And lose their bright and beauteous bloom, 
So died that hope in dark decay 

When late thy frown bespoke its doom. 

Yet as their fragrance still shall live, 

And linger pining thro' the air. 
Thus shall my love unceasing give 

Its sweets to thee, its idol fair ! 
Ah ! yes ; it never will depart, 

But long will wreathe its tendrils bright 
Around my unrequited heart, 

And bless the breath which did it blight ! 



57 



A PANEGYRIC ON WOMAN.* 

** \/\/OMAN, thy vows are traced in sand," 
Was sung by one in youthful prime, 
Before his eagle eye had scann'd 

Fame's summit, towering up sublime. 

And when he won, in later time, 
Its gleaming height— his lofty aim — 
And there, with pride, inscribed his name, 
Fresh imprecations moved his heart. 
And at her breast each deadly dart 
Was slung with rude, unflinching aim. 
Until he cursed his own high fame ! 
Until his life had reach' d that state 
When all around was desolate, 
When all, without her radiant smile. 
Was dark as midnight on the Nile. 

Then could he now to her fond breast 
Return and claim an hour of rest. 
And there his head in calmness lay, 
As when in young life's early day. 
Before his feeling heart had froze 
As chill as moveless Alpine snows ? 



* The paraphrase of a prosaic pancygyric on Woman by a young 
schoolfellow. 
58 



A PANEGYRIC ON WOMAN. 59 

Ah! no; for shame had taught his heSrt 

That in its own unquiet mart 

The only solace he could claim 

Was there 'mid reeking wrecks of fame. 

So in self-exile, banish'd far 
P'rom every ray of Virtue's star, 
From Hope's bright dream, and Joy's fond smile, 
He, lingering, pass'd from Nature's guile 
To Death's dark, solitary isle ! 

" Thy name is frailty !" Avon's bard, 

In self-complacence, glibly sung. 
When nuptial ties his life had marr'd 

And o'er his spirit madness flung. 

And many a harp, unkindly strung, 
Has execrated Woman's name, 

And poison'd, with malignant tongue, 
The virgin beauty of her fame. 
Oh, man, perfidious to life's trust ! 
Is this low imprecation just? 
Does in thine own dark, sullen soul 
One purer flow of virtue roll ? 
Has nature wrought within thy breast 
Those charms of life the loveliest, — 
Unchanging love, untiring care. 
The first in deep distress to share. 
The last to quit misfortune's side, 
Tho' clouds of hate may there betide ? 

Has Heaven been more benignant still 
To thee, O miscreant of dark will ? 



6o A PANEGYRIC ON WOMAN 

" Nay \ nay !" is Justice' high reply. 
Then let thy truthless slanders die, 
And seek no more to blast the fame 
Of one so fair and pure of name. 
And why should man thus execrate 

A being so divinely fair ? 
When sooth her soul would fitter mate 
With seraph in his lofty state 

Than link with such as human are! 
Is it that in an evil hour 
She yielded to temptation's power, 
And of the Tree of Life partook? 
This was to her great wisdom's book ; 
And that her soul aspiring sought 
To wing its flight 'mid godlike thought. 
Could she be censured ? Answer thou 
Whose soul Ambition wakens now ! 

Invective man ! the secret scroll 
Of buried years awhile unroll, 
And read, upon its varied page, 
Her lofty deeds from age to age ! 
Behold as one, when mighty Rome 
Lay trembling 'neath a threaten' d doom. 
When, fierce with rage, in sheen of war,- 
Revenge their only guiding star, — 
A furious host exultant came. 

Her walls to level with the dust. 
To blast her comet-gleaming fame. 

And sate in ruins their savage lust ! 



A PANEGYRIC ON WOMAN. 6i 

Their sanguine leader, tho' a son, 
To that imperial city born. 
Had sworn, within a desperate hour, 
The wreck eternal of her power, 
And that her glory bright should sink 
Beyond Redemption's yawning brink ! 

And chafing hot with burning hate. 
The' avenging minister of fate. 
He now leads on that eager host — 
Another hour, and Rome is lost ! 

But who is she who dares to brave 
Ilis fury, and the doom'd to save? 
'Tis she upon whose gentle breast 
His young head first reclined to rest ; 
His noble heart, tho' wild with rage, 
A mother's prayers did quick assuage ; 
And, tho' his life-blood was the cost, 
He backward led that Volscian host ! 
And Rome, untouch'd, sublimely stood 
To prove the power of Womanhood. 

Contaminating man ! did she 
Deluge the world in misery. 
And on each far-extended shore 
The crimson tide of battle pour ? 
And then, when all the world, enslaved. 
Beheld the conqueror's banner waved 
Above their homes — say, did she weep 
That there were no more worlds to sweep 
With storms of war, and glory reap ? 



62 A PANEGYRIC ON WOMAN. 

'Tis history will the truth attest, 
And prove the feeling of her breast. 
'Twas ever hers, where lay the slain 
Stretch'd bleeding on the purple plain. 
To seek the fallen, friend or foe. 
And mitigate his dying woe. 

Perfidious man ! unfaithful found 
When most is needed aid of thee. 

When dark misfortunes hover round 
The path of life unbrokenly, 

'Tis then, alas ! too late, we know 
The latent treachery of that breast. 
Whose love we deem'd of human best 

When blinded to its real flow. 
In thee we often deem we see 
The counterpart of Deity ; 
But then, ere many months be sped, 
Behold, the phantom bright is fled. 
And all our fond delusion's dead ! 

When heaven's high King all bleeding hung 
Upon the cross in agony ; 

And sepulchres their doors unflung, 
In terror, at man's mad decree ; 
When earth, and all eternity. 
In wild convulsions, mingled, sway'd, 
And darkness, like a Stygian shade. 
Enshrouded day with nightly veil, 
'Twas then, when man's faint heart did fail. 
That woman's breast, unterrified, 
The bleeding Cross remain'd beside, 



A PANEGYRIC ON WOMAN. 63 

A ministering angel there, 
His latest anguish still to share, 
Till Deity had died ! 

Ungrateful man ! in sickness' hour, 
"When burning fever racks thy brain, 

And dark contagion's penal power 
Pervades thy form vidth ruthless pain, — 
Say, dost thou in this hour disdain 
That tender solace hers alone. 
Refusing, with malignant frown. 
Her fond solicitude and care, 
Which 'tis thy fortune then to share ? 

Let conscious shame her right declare, 
And in the hour of ease remind 
Thy soul, so ingrate and unkind. 
That Justice will, or soon or late, 
A retribution due create. 

"The last best gift of Heaven," such 
The loftiest bard of time hath sung ; 

For when his hand, with master-touch. 
Awaked his harp to music strung, 
It seem'd like Heaven-taught fingers flung 
Across celestial dulcimers. 
Holding spell-bound her worshipers. 
And such high praise, in sooth, is due 
To Womankind, the only true. 

Tho' sometimes w^eakness mar her plan 
And yield her to the wiles of man. 
Yet why for this does he return 
On her that condemnation stern ? 



64 A PANEGYRIC ON WOMAN 

'Twas he who foil'd her hopes, and seal'd 
Her doom, no more to be repeal'd. 
Then say, O heartless human ! say, 
Dost thou condemn, and thus repay 
The victim of thy selfish sway ? 

Ah! yes; and thus that hapless fate 
Of Woman leaves her desolate, 
Upon the bleak world thrown, as spray 
Torn from its mother-wave away. 
To wander wretched and alone 
All hopelessly to life's sad bourn ! 

Scenes beautiful, and pleasures pure, 
'Tis hers, alas ! to know no more ; 
But sin and its allurements vain 
Are all her soul can now attain ! 
The roseate dreams of youth's fond prime 
Benighted by one fitful crime. 
And halcyon hope, young love imparted, 
Vanish' d, and she left broken-hearted ! 

This is, O venal man! thy deed. 
Yet thy cold heart disdains to bleed ; 
And she, who once with face so fair, 
With heart so pure, and charms so rare, 
No more must claim from Pity's eye 
The fleeting tribute of a sigh. 
But, wrapp'd in Sorrow's silent gloom. 
At length find refuge in the tomb ! 
Yet there she sleeps that same calm sleep 

Which generous death imparts to all; 
And, tho' but few above her weep, 

For her the tears of angels fall ! 
November, 1871. 



LINES WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM. 

T ET beaiiteous Fame 
The Poet's name 
In immortality enshrine ; 

And Freedom's tear 

The Patriot's bier 
Bedew with fervency divine ; 

Or Glory come 

In early bloom, 
And crown with radiancy of light 

The Warrior's brow, 

While nations bow 
And hail him warder of the right ; 

But give to me, 

O Memory! 
That boon of beauty thine alone, 

To fondly rest 

In Friendship's breast. 
To cold Forgetfulness unknown ! 



65 



MON AMI. 



TO 



■jWr Y heart has not lost its remembrance for thee, 

Though oblivion has darken'd my name, 
And with its deep gloom vvrapp'd thy friendship for me, 
Which forever I deem'd I might claim. 

Ah ! no ; but just as it germ'd into life. 

And bloom'd as a flower is blown, 
So it through my bosom, with entity rife. 

Was wreathed with thy image alone. 

And the frost of forgetfulness never shall blight, 

Or time sear its beauty and bloom : 
But its fragrance shall rise with the freshness of night. 

For thy name is its life and perfume. 

How closely its tendrils were wreathed round my heart ! 

For the brightest affection it knew 
Had lately l)een lorn from its homage apart. 

While its fondest expectancies flew. 

Every dream of my boyhood, the dearest and best. 
All the hopes of my youth which were dead ! 

Though anguish was mine when 1 laid them to rest. 
It was frenzy when this one had fled ! 
66 



^' MON ami:' 67 

And the heat, which the frenzy of grief can inspire, 

If lull'd not to sleep at its birth, 
Will canker the heart with its mad-breathing fire. 

Till existence is desert and dearth. 

And thus in the depth of the urn of my heart 

This penal infection was lit ; 
But fate gave thy friendship, which temper'd its art, 

And Solitude's all that remains now of it; 

But a Solitude drear as the winter of years, 
When the snow and the tempest of time 

Have kill'd every flower which life most endears. 
And left it a bleak waste of crime. 

Yet that bright " Mon Ami," we chose as our star, 

A light o'er our pathways to shine. 
Will never be dimm'd in its gleaming afar, 

Till eclipsed by a ray more divine. 

Ah ! thus shall it glow, though adversity frown, 

And blight, in its beauty so rare, 
Thy spirit, imbued with those graces alone 

Which the angels might envy to share. 

And still, when that darkness which smothers all light 

Above my wild spirit shall wave, 
Its ray shall be last to make radiant the night, 

And will scatter the gloom from the grave ! 

1872. 



TO TOBY.* 

pOOR Toby, 'tis of thee I sing, 

And thou art worthy of my song. 
Though women darts of vengeance fling 
At thy defenseless soul of wrong. 

For words of thine their mortal wrath 
Hangs over thy untutor'd head; 

And henceforth thou a dreary path 
Through life must unattended tread. 

O'er thy dark fate I sadly weep ! 

But I must shun thee now, for, oh, 
The Calliope's ire o'er me shall sweep, 

And lay me, like thee, cold and low ! 

Yet, hapless Toby, thou shalt have 
My unfeign'd sympathy for e'er; 

Though I cannot redeem or save 
Thy spirit from a fate so drear. 



* This poem, and the ohe succeeding, are of local origin, and will 
be of interest only to the few to whom the circumstances of that origin 
are known. 
68 



TO TOBY. 69 

Nor dare I vindicate thy cause; 

Yet I, and all who know thee well, 
Would give to thee thy due applause 

If maids would not 'gainst us rebel. 

But then, you know, my dear old chum. 

That when a reputation's lost — 
At least with women — keeping dumb 

Is best for man at any cost. 

No one can tell how sad I feel 

In losing such a friend as thou ; 
But, that I may maintain my weal 

With Woman, I renounce thee now ! 

Thou from thy lofty eminence, 

Like Lucifer, hast fallen low ; 
And thou consign'd, like him, from hence. 

Must be to an eternal woe ! 

O proud and peerless Toby, thou 

No more shalt blaze in splendor bright. 

Thy star of glory glimmers now 

In gloom beyond the gloom of night. 

Its rays our eyes no more shall ken : 

Then weep, oh, weep thy dismal doom ! 

Thy greatness ne'er shall rise again, 
Or shed o'er maiden hearts its bloom. 

So to thy greatness bid farewell, 
A long farewell ! like Wolsey did ; 



70 TO TOBY. 

But hast thou none like him to tell 
Of how thy fame so soon was hid ? 

Oh, if thou hast, then, Toby, warn 
This friend of thine, nor let him sink, 

Like thee, beyond Redemption's dawn, 
Where Woman stands upon the brink ! 
October, 1870. 




AN IMPROMPTU ESSAY. 

ON A MONTHLY REVIEW OF WACO UNIVERSITY 

HTHE day of our monthly Review is at hand, 

And most of the students are gather' d around, 
While our honor'd professors, with ready command. 
Make the heart of each stripling with terror to bound. 

The morning is past, and the evening is come; 

And now on the rostrum young speakers appear. 
With bosoms elated ; with eloquence some 

Put their elders to shame that they lag in the rear. 

The editors, too, of our Society's Review, 

Or the Phyloglomics' paper, as others. 
With envious feelings, have term'd it too true. 

Now come to put forth their utmost endeavors ! 

Yes, 'tis true their utmost endeavors must rise; 

For folly and meagreness only appear — 
Its pages are blotted, yet, under disguise 

Of bombast and pomp, what has it to fear? 

It goes on the saw, " You must blow your own horn," 
And spout through the world, or forever you sink ; 

And he who does not was undoubtedly born 
At the fount of Forgetfulness ever to drink ! 

71 



72 AN IMPROMPTU ESS A Y. 

But why is it thus? Alas ! who can tell? 

For surely its precepts are highly ill-bred; 
Can you not, fair ladies, this doubting dispel ? 

" Yes," one gladly whispers, "your Toby is dead !" 

But where is young Grey ? Can no one account 

For his sudden departure from duty? 
" Yes," another replies : " his lyrical fount 

Is pouring its libations only to beauty!" 

But now for a partial inspection from home — 
The fair Prairie-flower its perfumes exhale, 

Like ambrosial odors from Olympian dome, 

And its music floats soft on the wings of the gale. 

But, ho ! Where's the Basket ? Oh, marvelous sight ! 

Have its chips been consumed by a merciless fire ? 
Ah ! yes; for its ashes lie smoulder'd and white. 

And no via7'k tells the tale so disastrously dire ! 

'Tis whisper'd around (but can it be true ?) 

That its contents were furnish' d as fuel 
To make a warm beverage for the partial few 

"Who consume the collegiate lunch of the school. 

But be this for fiction or be it for truth. 

It is not exactly our province to say : 
We only can tell that full many a youth 

Deeply grieves that the Basket has been borne away. 

Yet we hope it will shortly return to the stage, 
And in this great drama act fairly its part. 

And like Phoenix 'twill rise, this we gladly presage : 
Then, sorrowing youth, calm thy turbulent heart ! 
January, 1871. 



BELSHAZZAR. 

nPHE big, broad sun had sunk to rest 

In the lap of the distant deep; 
A crimson moon, in the arms of night, 

Smiled on a world embalm'd in sleep; 
The air was calm as an infant's dream, 

And myriad stars gleam'd on the earth. 
When, from the east, in rapturous tones, 

Waked the voluptuous sounds of mirth. 

It was a feast ! a royal feast ! 

The mighty king Belshazzar's last ! — 
Who, proudly there array'd, unthought 

The awful crisis gathering fast. 
Now satraps brave and women fair 

Upon each other fondly smiled; 
With hopes elate their souls o'erflow'd. 

And hearts with love throbb'd high and wild. 

The strains of music now begin — 

It is a glorious night to all ! 
And feet fantastic lightly trip 

Along that grandly lighted hall; 
And on they go; with flying feet 

They chase the halcyon hours away, 

6 71 



74 BELSHAZZAR. 

Unmindful of the dismal fate 

That must arise ere dawn of day. 

Without the city 's gather'd now 

The Persian and the haughty Mede : 
O royal king, thy country's doom'd! 

This is Jehovah's awful creed. 
But, heedless still, sweet laughters ring 

Upon the purplepiniun'd air, 
And flowing bowls, from sacred shrines, 

Too, give ungodly pleasure there. 

But, hark ! a deadly sound breaks in, 

Deep fraught with swellings of despair; 
And, lo ! the scintillations gleam 

Amid the gloom, with hectic flare; 
And fast the mirthl'ul voices die 

In echoes thro' the vault above, 
While lamentations fill the night, 

A requiem to late living love ! 

And every face, that rosy blush'd 

A moment since, is ghastly pale ; 
And on his gorgeous golden throne 

Even this august king doth quail. 
The strains of music, too, are hush'd — 

Dread silence reigns, that doth appall 
The bravest heart ; and now a hand. 

All ghostly, writes along the wall 

In language strange and mystic, dark ! 

" Ah ! what does that mad hand portray ?' 



BELSHAZZAR. 75 

Now frantic cries the trembling king, — 

" Is there not one, e'en one, to say, 
Among ye sages, learn'd and great. 

What this portends?" No answers come ! 
But men of lore in horror gaze, 

While every soul 's with terror dumb ! 

" Bring me -the Hebrew captive, then !" 

The monarch in his madness cries. 
And forth Jehovah's Prophet comes, 

To tell the haughty king — he dies ! 
** Round thy neck a golden chain, 

Emblem of thy high command. 
Thou shalt wear, and in my kingdom 

Third in honor thou shalt stand, 

" If to me the latent language 

Of this writing thou shalt speak ; — 
Hear, O captive ! do my bidding. 

And this spell of terror break !" 
But he answer'd, " Proud Belshazzar ! 

What are all these things to me ? 
Or to thee ? for ere the morning 

Thou in death shalt sleeping be, 

" God hath \veigh'd thee in his balance, 

And thou hast Iieen wanting found ! 
This, O monarch ! is the writing — 

Hear ye not the conflict's sound?" 
Thus he ended, and the foemen 

Now were in the city's wall, 



76 BELSHAZZAR. 

And, by sword of Mede and Persian, 
Bravest sons of Chaldea fall ! 

And the battle rages fiercer — 

King Belshazzar meets the host; 
But ere morn had brightly risen, 

He was number'd with the lost; 
And the broad Euphrates river, 

Rolling high and wildly on, 
Moan'd a sad and plaintive requiem 

For the spirits that had flown ! 




LINES WRITTEN ON LEAVING 
WACO UNIVERSITY. 

A DIEU to the place where the halcyon hours 

Of waning boyhood and the morning of youth 
Were pass'd amid pleasures enamel'd with flowers, 
Embalm'd by the dews from the streamlet of truth. 

From this height, which so long as sacred I held, 

I see the fair village before me arise; 
Here oft have I sat, and, with rapture, beheld 

The broad sun in glory depart from the skies. 

Here oft, when the young Night rejoiced in his birth, 
I have watch'd the mild moon on his bosom recline 

And with languishing glow kiss the envious Earth; 
But that rapture, alas ! no more can be mine. 

Yet a tenderer tie binds me closer to thee, 

Thou dear spot ! for here Meditation first taught 

My young soul that happiness only can be 

In Solitude such as thy presence hath brought. 

I have been with thee long, and many an eve 

Hath smiled on our converse, in silence prolong'd; 

The language of truth did thy lips only weave. 

While others, obsequious, my bosom have wrong'd. 



78 ON LEAVING WACO UNIVERSITY. 

Yes, others whom faith had impell'd me to love 
And lay at their mercy my heart's fondest thought; 

But, ah ! did they true to that confidence prove ? 
Time, the tell-tale, a different lesson has taught ! 

But pause in thy flight, O Remembrance unkind, 
And mark for awhile a more generous scene; 

A beacon of glory, to harbor the mind, 

Now breaks on the view with a grandeur serene. 

'Tis the walls of a college, majestic to see; 

A place which my heart muit forever revere ! 
A sedulous nurse it has long been to me. 

And I bid it farewell with the breath of a tear. 

Some hours most hallow'd beneath its broad roof. 
Which echoed the language and laughter of joy, 

I spent ; but suspicion has turn'd me aloof, 

And my heart wakes no feeling like that when a boy. 

But avaunt, recollections that mirror the past 

With a form like the ghosts of the Stygian shore! 

For the shade of a scene more beguiling is cast 
On life's panorama now passing before. 

In the freshness of girlhood she dawns on the view, 
Like a dream which portrays the' empyrean clime ; 

With ringlets of ebon which winds love to woo. 
And a voice which doth rival the lute in its chime. 

'Twas she who did teach my young soul to adore, 
And low at the shrine of Affection to bow ; 



ON LEAVING WACO UNIVERSITY. 79 

To offer to her the first-fruits of its core, 

And to garland with flowers of love her fair brow. 

Her smile, like the sunbeam when morning is fair, 

Germ'd a hope in my breast, which flourish'd beneath 

The dew of her kindness; but that Whisper was there 
Which on its dark wings bears th' infection of death. 

So I must depart, for to linger would be 

A torture which mortal would brook not to brave : 

Then, star of my boyhood, to hope and to thee 
A final farewell echoes all that it gave. 

Farewell ! but when spring of existence is gone. 
And summer hath twined thee her laurel of joy, 

Should autumn bring grief to thy bosom alone, 
May Heaven, benignant in mercy, deploy! 

But now let me gaze on the picture once Tnore : 
It is lovely, yet tinged is its sequel with woe ! 

I go, yet there's not in the wide world a shore, 
Tho' sunny as Eden, like to this in its glow. 

Happy place! where memories, divine in their sheen, 
Shed effulgence as soft as the azure of heaven. 

I grieve that I leave thee; but what thou hast been 
Thou art not ; and as bliss, thou hast anguish, too, given. 

So let me this hour in silence depart, 

Nor recall to remembrance those sorrows so deep: 
But let them live on in the core of my heart, 

A watch o'er the tomb where its dead idols sleep ! 



8o ON LEAVING WACO UNIVERSITY. 

And they shall an aliment be to my soul, 

To nurture vitality's entity there ; 
And when darkness and death round existence shall roll, 

I shall last think of thee, my hope and despair! 

Feb. 1871. 



^^ 




THE ANATHEMA OF LIFE. 

"Lost— lost— lost! 
To me, forever, the seat near the blood of the feast. 
To me, forever, the Station near the Throne of Love ! 
To me, forever, the Kingdom of Heaven — and I the least." 

Menken. 

"ly/r Y Soul is wild with anguish ! 

And, like a caged bird awaked to the memory of 
its airy liberty, my Spirit, beacon'd by the "pride of 
place" in the far-off eyrie of bliss,* still beats its weary 
pinions against the iron bars of wretchedness, — staining 
its fair young plumage with the crimson tide of life. 

In aspiration for that Bliss of Life it has grown mad ; 
and yet will not be stay'd in its wild flight ! 
Oh, when shall rest be mine ? 
Oh, when shall some kind Angel, watching long the 
seal of wretchedness upon my life, stay, with her magic 
touch, its goading usurpation? 

My Spirit faints with longing to be free — to flit beyond 
the dimness of the world's bleak bourn, and bathe its 
weary pinions in the Sea of Song ! 
Fainting for Freedom ! 
Dying in Dai-kness ! 



An eagle towering in his pride of place." — Macbeth. 

In pride of place here last the eagle flew." — Childe Harold. 



82 THE ANATHEMA OF LIFE. 

Oh, when shall be ended this Sorrow of Soul ? 

It was not always thus ! 
My Spirit did not always feel the pang of unremitting 
Pain stinging it to its core, and pointing, as it laughed, 
to the phantom Tablet of the Great "J\)-Come, whereon 
is written Death, and saying, "Spirit of Sin, behold thy 
Doom !" 

Ah, no! it was not always thus! 
There was a Time — Ah ! why did Destiny envy her 
life with me, and bear her, fetter'd with grief, the Biide 
of the Sable Past ? 

Fair, fairy Time ! when round my brow was garlanded 
the rainbow of happy Hope; when in the core of my 
young heart was brightly written Purity and Peace, and 
every thought and dream was Love! 

But the day of Dreams, so fraught with Hope, and 
Peace, and Love, lingers no longer! 

The deep, dark shadows of Sin, and Sorrow, and 
Despair, have stolen across its dawn, and left it in the 
Erebus of Gloom ! 

My Spirit pants for light ! 
Light to awake dead Hope ! 
Light to dispel its gloom! 
Light to give back its Joy ! 
The Joy of its distant day ! 
And yet no light doth come ! 
Oh, thou lost Pleiad of my Soul, come back to me ! 

But no, she's gone — gone — gone! 
And ever, with demoniac laugh, cometh the Fiend of 
Pain, and, pointing to the phantom Tablet of the Great 
To-Come, whereon is written Death, sayelh, " Spirit of 
Sin, behold thy Doom !" 



THE ANATHEMA OF LIFE. 83 

Oh, cursed Vision ! 

How prays my Spirit to be freed from its ghostly gaze, 
— to hear no more its hollow voice of Doom! 
But it will not depart ! 

It haunts me still ; and when I sleep, it is my dream — 
my only dream. 

My Spirit seems loosed from its mortal ossuary, and 
plumed with Immortality ! 

Then, mounted on the Tempest of Eternity, before me 
flies the Spirit of my early years ! 

Her eyes are wild with ghastly tears, — her once fair 
hair is clotted black with blood ; and, as the Tempest, in 
his rage, bears her along the Course of Death, her voice 
in frenzy cries : 

"Oh, thou mad Suicide of Life! Why hast thou 
come ? 

" To dwell without thee were enough of woe ! 

" But hence forever to behold the form that, with the 
Scimitar of Sin, spilt my young life-blood and made it 
food for worms, surpasseth far the Second Death ! 

"Avaunt thee, then, I pray thee, and forbear!" 
But, ah ! her prayer is vain. 

My fratricide Soul cleaves unto hers, and down — 
down — indissoluble now, they sink, — oh, God! they die ! 
I wake in terror ! 

But this visionary woe requites not fate ; 

For unto my wakefulness cometh this Fiend of Pain, 
and, pointing to the phantom Tablet of the Great To- 
Come, whereon is written Death, sayeth, " Spirit of Sin, 
behold thy Doom !'" 

Oh, God ! and shall this Vision never die ? 



84 THE ANATHEMA OF LIFE. 

Shall not this Corse of Conscience slumber yet, and 
cease to bathe my spirit's lips in gall and wormwood, — 
bitter unto death ? 

When will some pitying Angel plead for me? 
When will thy Mercy melt, and into my arid Soul 
pour the sweet oil of Forgiveness ? 

" Never, oh, never!" sayeth this hollow Voice, 
" Never, oh, never!" my Spirit cries — 

" Never, oh, never!" 
I hear an echo dark arise 

From across Death's river ! 
And my soul is wild with sorrow, 

Ever, forever; 
For to me there cometh no Morrow — 
Never, oh, never ! 
April, 1872. 




TO SUSIE. 

CrWEET ebon-eyed maid, of my boyhood the light, 

Long years have departed since, clasping thy hand, 
I felt the fast throb of the pulse of delight 

Thrill my breast with that joy which but thou couldst 
command ; 
Yet still doth my bosom, unchanged and unfree. 
With that passion awake which it first woke for thee. 

But perchance thy young heart hath echoed and lost 
The sound of that voice once so happily heard ; 

And the image of him then delighting the most 
Hath gone from thee now like an echoless word ; 

Yet, though wrapp'd in oblivion my memory may be, 

Still love in my bosom is sparkling for thee. 

Ah ! when that dread hour, which sever'd thy smile 
From the smile of reflection then equally mine, 

Had come, all my soul was embitter'd the while ; 
And I wept that was lost such a rapture divine ! 

And never a thought could be nurtured by me 

Unless, in its joy, it reverted to thee. 

And when thou wert gone, by that soft flowing stream 
Where first our young hearts waked the passion of love, 

85 



86 TO SUSIE, 

Each morning, as erst, with its bright rising beam, 

Found me wandering there, its enchantments to prove; 
But chill'd were its pleasures, and lonely to see ; 
For the light of their joys had departed with thee ! 

Yet perchance in that day some hoar-headed sage, 
Beholding affection thus I'resh in its bloom, 

Sigh'd to think that the fast-fleeting footsteps of age 
Would leave e'en its memory enshrouded in gloom; 

But he knew not, alas ! that, like pearls in the sea, 

This jewel of passion was thus hid for thee. 

Thou wert my first love, thou my last shalt remain; 

As that star which earliest at evening is seen. 
And latest when morn treads the soft azure plain, 

So thou art to me, and hast yet ever been ! 
And no change which the fiat of Fate may decree 
Can alter this breast, which alone throbs for thee 



^'S^^K 



THE FLOWER. 

A CCEPT from me this little flower; 
It is a token of my love ; 
And may it, in some future hour, 
Thy heart of me in mem'ry move. 

And may that recollection bring 

No pang to that soft heart of thine ; 

But may some sweet enchantment cling 
Around it, like a spell divine. 




S7 



THE LOVERS' LEAP. 

A TRADITIONAL TALE OF TEXAS. 

I. 

T^HE morn, in blushing beauty, broke 
Along the azure orient sky, 

When many a fearless warrior woke, 
From dreams of love, to battle's cry. 
And swift to arms they fly, they fly; 
While every mountain, dale, and hill 
The' alarming echoes answer shrill ; 
For o'er the far-extended plain 
The chief Sammaccus comes in vain 
With serried host, in martial train, 

His mortal hate in blood to quell. 
And youthful Alva proud doth ride. 
His aged sire, the chief, beside. 
Elated high with hope and pride. 

Which even now of glory tell. 
And to the wildly amorous air 
Is streaming now his ebon hair, 
As if it felt a conscious glow 
Of glory through it come and go. 
And in the deadly sheen of war 
His form conspicuous shines afar. 
As some tremendous meteor 

80 



THE LOVERS' LEAP. 89 

Along the coruscated sky 

When tempest moves in grandeur by. 

11. 

But, hark ! the Shasta chieftain's voice 
Is ringing sonorous on the air ; 

And savage warriors, who rejoice 
In din of arms, are gathering there; 
And each, with vengeance fierce, will dare 
To meet thee, Alva, and thy sire, 
To-day, where hottest burns the fire 
Of war, and where the bravest lay 
A victim to death's sable sway. 

III. 

In grim array each phalanx forms, 
And, with undaunted steps and slow. 

They now advance with eager arms. 
To lay, unwept, each other low. 
But, hark ! that cry — now on they go ; 
And on the plain impetuous meet — 
With clash of shield and spear they greet 
Each other — death in every blow ! 
And, lo ! the Shasta warriors fly — 
But no; they back return, and now, 
With fiercer strength, with darker brow. 
With fury glaring in each eye, 
They meet again ; and arm on arm 
Is clashing with a mad alarm. 
Full many a gallant hero falls / 

Beneath each blow; but still the calls 
7 



90 777^ LOVERS' LEAP. 

To victory and to death awnke 
New courage thro' the ranks that break. 
And now, with mightier onslaught still, 
The wavering come, and madly fill 
With dead and dying, friend and foe, 
Promiscuous, all the plain below. 

IV. 

Lo ! flying to yon forest fast, 

A gallant steed, from battle's blast, 

All riderless, is hurrying on; 
And blood and sweat profusely flow 
Adown his hotly panting side, 

By tomahawk or falchion torn, 
In hands of some relentless foe ; 
But burning breath his nostrils wide 
Distend with yet unconquer'd pride. 

And whose proud steed leaves rider low, 
A hapless prey to savage foe ? 
And who the rider left to sliare 
Alone the furious tumult there ? 
'Tis Alva; still his gallant form, 
Undaunted, stems the battle's storm. 
Though faint and bleeding, still he calls 
For vengeance ; and before him falls 
The bravest of the daring van 
That form his foe's unconquer'd clan. 

Still, on they come, like ghosts of night, 
And back recoils the tide of fight ; 
For Alva's voice is lieard in vain 
To swell the blast along the plain — 



THE LOVERS' LEAP. 

His bravest are among the slain — 
His dastard few in flight. 

V. 

But dauntless Alva was not doom'd 

To die defeated by a foe, 
Or where the star of victory 'lumed 

Above the forms that laid him low. 
Not thus, but as a captive now 

They bore him bound from battle-ground 
Yet still upon that nitid brow 

The some unsullied pride was found, 
And in his darkly-gleaming eye, 
As stars that light the Boreal sky, 
The fire of vengeance still was red, 
Nor died when every hope was dead. 

VI 

The moon is up ; and on the plain 
She slowly turns her tearless eye. 

To view the hapless heroes, slain 
While chafed the tide of battle high. 
And loth she seems to climb the sky ; 
For no propitious passing cloud 
Appears, her pallid face to shroud, 
But still, with blood-red glare, she pours 
Her beams upon the silent shores, 
Where murmuring waves a requiem moan 
For hero spirits lately flown. 

But turning now her ghastly ray 
Among the groves where, slumbering, lay 



THE LOVERS' LEAP, 

The victor warriors lost to life 

In dreams of visionary strife, 

She marks a scene which breaks the spell 

That lately o'er her spirit fell 

With gory magic, while she view'd 

The plain with mangled corses strew'd. 

For 'mong that mighty slumbering host 
One form alone to sleep is lost ; 
And this, the Shasta chieftain's child, 
Around whom maiden beauty smiled. 
She saw the captive; and a wild. 
Impetuous passion sway'd her breast. 
And madly robb'd it of its rest. 

Scarce seventeen summers' suns had play'd 
Around the form of this briglit maid ; 
And every charm the Graces claim'd. 
As is of fair lole* famed. 
Around her smiled, like stars that gleam 
At midnight on a crystal stream. 
And as the plumage of that bird 
Whose " Nevermore " no more is heard 
Save in the deeps with Ulalume, 
So were her tresses in their gloom. 
With eyes empyrean as the ray 
Which lights the orient into day, 
She well might claim the homage high 
Of many a warrior's heart and eye. 
Ah, this is bright Mulita ! she 
Whose kindly glance and voice shall be 

* The wife of Hercules. See Plutarch. 



THE LOVERS' LEAP. 93 

To Alva, in this hour of pain, 

A hope, though but a hope in vain. 

VII. 

She sleeps not, but through tears she views 
The rising moon, and her she wooes, 
As if she sought the queen of night 
To shield her treacherous heart from blight, 
And guide her where her hero lay. 
That she might charm his night to day. 

Now, rising softly 'neath the glare 
Of that wild moon, she ventures where 
The fetter'd captive bleeding lies. 
And, with a whisper, thus she sighs : 
" Unhappy stranger ! though a foe 
To sire and kindred, and to me, 

Yet still I come to check the flow 
Of blood and sorrow, and to be 
(If I the boon may grant to thee) 
A traitor to my ^cause and kin. 
And let thee, foeman, freedom win : 
For when the morning dawns, they'll come — " 

But here she falter'd, as if some 
Unkindly evil, or his doom. 
Hung on the words which sobs represt 
And held unutter'd in her breast. 

" Oh, maiden, speak !" then Alva cried, 
" Nor try the worst from me to hide, 
Well know I what my doom shall be, 
Unless I find an aid in thee. 



94 



THE LOVERS' LEAP. 

Then speak, oh, speak !" again he cried. 
And thus Mulita soft replied : 

" To-morrow they will come, and thou 
Must to the cruel victor how, — 
A prey to death, — while I alone 
Shall weep thee, gallant warrior, gone !" 

Thus ended she ; and forth she drew 
A glittering steel, to rend in two 
The cords which bound each weltering limb 
For, oh, thus burn'd her love for him ! 

" Stay, maiden, stay the hasty knife ! 
For why risk thine to save my life ? 
What ! knowest thou not what deadly ire 
Awakes, with unabating fire. 
Within the bosom of thy sire, 
For me and mine? Then leave my side, 
And as full many a brave has died. 
So let me die !" But, " No ! oh, no !" 
The maiden sobb'd ; " I will not go. 
To leave thee here alone, alone, — 
To see thee die, — to know tlree gone, 
Forever gone, would bring to me 
A deeper woe than die with thee !" 

" What feeling hath inspired thy breast, 
To make thee rob thyself of rest ? 
To pour above thy sunny path 
A sire's displeasure — a sire's wrath ? 
For what if thou my freedom gave, 
And snatch'd me from untimely grave, — 
Wouldst thou my future years make bright 
With smiles and love, and be the light 



THE LOVERS' LEAP. 95 

To lure me, with unfading flame, 
High o'er the darkling steep of fame? 
Wilt ftiou this do? Oh, quickly speak ! 
For see! yon slumbering warriors wake," 

" I will !" With this the cords she rent; 
But, ah ! too late the bright intent; 
For loud and long the' alarming cry 
Upon the night-air echoed by. 
And trenibling now Mulita stood — 
Not for herself; for unsubdued 
Was still that passion held in vain ; 
But for her lover, whom she fain 
Would set at liberty again. 

Yet this bright boon was not for her, 
Who e'en in grief shone lovelier; 
For now around in madness pour'd 
The fiercest of that savage horde, 
And from proud Alva's fearless side 

They bore Mulita bound away, 
Which wrung with ire that heart of pride, 

That loathed before a foe to sway. 
But what is vengeance now to him. 
When many a warrior, fierce and grim, 
Amid that mad vindictive band. 

Would joy to tear from out his breast 

The bounding heart, and feel at rest 
While dropp'd his life-blood from the hand? 
So fetter'd once again he lay, 
To meet his doom at coming day. 
" That doom," he sigh'd, " which must destroy 
That hope which, from a sportive boy. 



96 THE LOVERS' LEAP. 

Has wildly revel' d in my breast, 
And never yet has calm'd to rest, — 
To seek, where only fame is found. 
The bloodiest spot on battle-ground. 
And learn to love its mingled sound. 
But how, alas, has fate o'erspread 
With darkness all that hope had said 
Should crown the manly brow of years, 
And make me first among my peers ! 

I go ! and not a bard will sing 
My glory as their bravest king. 
Or teach young chiefs the way to fame 
By memory of my deathless name; 
And not an eye shall mark the spot 
Where unto dust my ashes rot. 
And say, ' Our chieftain sleepeth here!' 
Nor shed in homage there one tear. 
But I shall pass from earth away, — 
The exhalation of a day !" 

Thus spake Ambition ! but from one 
Whose heart no Christian throb had known. 
He knew the glory of his race. 
And sigh'd to win its loftiest place ; 
A second Etsel,* with his scourge, 
He raged to stem the battle's surge. 

vni. 

The morn at length begins to break, 
In heavy clouds, along the sky, 



THE LOVERS' LEAP. 97 

And vengeful Shasta warriors wake 
To view the chieftain doom'd to die. 
Yet in his ever-brilliant eye 
The same unsullied glory gleams, 
As if his night were fill'd with dreams, 
With many a happy vision fraught ; 
Nor deigns he to portray the thought 
Which inward racks his wreaking breast ; 
But smiling on — with grief represt— 
He scorns his foes' puissant power, 
And calmly waits the fatal hour. 

Hark! hear that whoop, which, like a knell, 
Resounds along the echoing dell ! 
'Tis finish'd, and the hour is come — 
But shall young Alva meet his doom ? 
The sturdy tread of gathering host, 
Prophetic, speaks that all is lost ! 
And from his tightly fettering thrall 
They loose the captive, and the call 
To march funereal wakes, with deep 
And solemn sound, each neighboring steep. 

And on the heart of her who sought, 
At midnight dread, the hero's side. 

The footsteps fall like requiems caught 
From depths where every hope has died. 
Still on they move, and she alone 
Is left to weep the captive gone. 
And in the distance faintly breaks 
The echo which that tread awakes. 
But now they pause, and every eye 
Turns on the victim doom'd to die. 



THE LOVERS' LEAP. 

Low kneeling at a marksman's pace, 
He views, with still unchanging face, 
The archers formidable and fell 

But, hark ! a wildly furious yell 
The forest wakes with fierce alarms ; 
And once again the clash of arms 
Is heard, with hideous din and roar. 
To clang along the dusky shore. 
And gallant Alva, freed once more. 
War's howling tempest stems again, 
As when upon that purple plain ; 
And old Sammaccus — glorious chief — 
Comes forth with all the mad relief 

Of battle, and before him fly , 
The Shasta warriors, but in vain ; 
For never yet on field or plain 
Lay dying more unhappy slain ; 

But belter thus than thou to die, 
Brave Alva, who hast never known 
A peer where gleam of conflict shone. 
And now defeat and ruinous rout — 
The victor's wild triumphant shout 
Fresh tumults wake along the dell. 
Loud, deep, and sonorous in their swell. 
And on they speed, by Alva led ; 
They leave the dying and the dead 
To welter in the gory glade 
Where late their mangled forms were laid. 

Yet still amid the conflict wild 
A radiant star o'er Alva smiled. 



THE LOVERS' LEAP. 99 

And lent new courage to his breast 
When foes more madly round him prest. 
For her he sought, and would not stay 
His reeking Wade amid the fray; 
But where a barrier stood, he came, 
And mortal was each vengeful aim. 
At length upon his wistful gaze 
A lovely light is seen to blaze ! 
" 'Tis she !" with eagerness he cries ; 
" 'Tis she !" the distant vale replies; 
And yes, 'tis she, but all in vain ; 
For strength and speed his might disdain. 
A stately form her frail one bears, 
And now the raging torrent dares ; 
And from the shore a light canoe 
Glides swiftly o'er the waters blue. 
And hopeless now, with turbid soul, 
He sees it through the distance roll ; 
For no propitious bark is near 
To lend its aid, or him to steer. 

IX. 

It is of night the mellow noon ! 
And now, like splendid dreams, doth glide 

Along the sky the yellow moon, 
In maiden beauty and in pride ; 
And not a cloud, in all the wide 

Expanse of heaven, is seen to float, 
Her clear and crimson glow to hide ; 

But, like a fairy realm remote, 
Bestud with starry gems of light. 



THE L O VERS' LEAP, 

in liquid blue, the happy night 

Sways beautiful and bright. 

\ 

X. 

" One moon has waned away, and, lo ! 
Another sheds a ripen'.d glow 
Upon this naiad-haunted stream, 
And mirrors there her flecker' d beam ; 
And 1 have wander'd long and lone 
In search of her — that dark-eyed one — 
Who sought, at midnight hour, my side, 
And all the hate of kith defied. 
That I might freedom win, and she 
The bride of bleeding Alva be ; 
Nor yet on mountain or in plain 
Her lovely .form is seen again ; 
Nor comes she with the ghosts of night 
To bid me follow where her sprite 
Has gone to reign, a queen of light ! 
But, weary, hopeless, and alone, 
I search for her — that dark-eyed one." 

Thus to the moon did Alva w^ail, 
And plaintive speak his hapless tale. 
But not an answer comes to him 
From out the sky where moonbeams swim ; 
Or from beneath, where, dark and grim, 
A yawning cavern drinks the flood 
Of that bright stream, as though 'twere blood. 
But all alone, in silence now, 
He views the waters, or the brow 



THE LOVERS' LEAP. 

Of hoary cliffs which tower above, 
As if to guard their sportive love. 

XI. 

"Alva! my love — my warrior!" fell 

Upon the air a charm — a spell ! 

lie turn'd, and, lo ! before him stood 

The loveliest form of womanhood. 

Enraptured, wilder'd, then he cried, 

"Mulita! is it thou, my bride?" 

" It is !" and forth to her he sprang, 

And gone was every bleeding pang. 

His heart was wild with love and bliss ! 

He had no dream of night like this — 

The warm embrace — the honey'd kiss ! 

"Mulita! thou to me hast been, 
Since first thy lovely form was seen. 
More than the wildest fiare of fame 
Which in my soul had lit its flame. 
And lured me, with its fiery light. 
To stand the first on battle's height, 
And win a crown of glory there, 
Which none have worn, or yet shall wear. 
And since that day, in brisky bark, 
I saw thee borne o'er waters dark, 
My only thought hath been to prove 
The loveliness of that deep love, 
The all-absorbing hope of life. 
To give it joy, or calm its strife ; 
And thou art here!" He could no more. 

But closer press'd her to his heart, 



THE LOVERS' LEAP. 

Which, bounding to its very core, 
Found words too weak its love to pour, 
Or its delight impart. 

XII. 

" From that blest morn which made thee free, 
This lovely world hath been to me 
A world of sorrow ! Not a smile 
Has cheer'd my drooping soul the while; 
But scoffs, and jeers, and looks of ire 
E'en from a once devoted sire, 
Have left existence darlcand bleak, 
And paled the crimson on my cheek. 
And this is why at length they came 
And loosed me from my bonds of shame. 
But health was gone, and strength had flown, 

And animation's vital glow 
Had ceased to tinge that cheek which shone. 
In happier days, with smiles alone. 

But there was left the marks of woe ! 
This now bright moon was then in birth 
A cherub infant to the earth. 
And in my lonely solitude 
I watch'd her grow to maidenhood. 

And oft in silence, when the gloom 
Of night came stealing from the tomb 
Of our dead Past, I pray'd that she 
Would give me back to hope and thee, 
Or grant me that eternal rest 
In the hunting-ground of the blest. 



THE LOVERS' LEAP. 103 

And while I thus in suppliance lay, 
A beauteous form, in bright array. 
Came stealing through the ghostly glare 
Which shade and moonlight painted there. 
Then, with sweet voice, to me she said, 
* Maiden, with soul to sorrow wed, 
I long have watch'd thy silent woe. 
And now have come to check its flow. 
I was a maiden once like thee. 
Of beauty full and sorrow free ; 
And in the love of him whose form 
With passion all my soul did warm. 
As thou, was blest ! But on a day 
When hope was brightest, grim affray, 
Like demon ghosts through tempests, came, 
And bade him win an early fame. 
He plunged into the conflict wild — 
He fell — I sought his side — he smiled. 
And told his love, then died ! Oh, how 
My happy heart was broken now ! 
I thought to strike the fatal knife 
Into my breast, and murder life; 
But then I could not break the tie 
Of self-existence thus, and die; 
Yox that were weakness ; and my heart, 
Wild with revenge, began to start! 
I donn'd his armor; and, his spear 
Raising aloft, defiance bade to fear. 
I knew his murderer, and all day 
I sought him in that bloody fray. 



I04 THE LOVERS' LEAP. 

We met — we fought — he fell ! but I, 
Alas! was not yet doom'd to die; 
Though- prodigal of blood and life, 
Untouch'd I pass'd amid that strife. 
Nor did I die till months of woe 
Drank up the life-blood ebbing slow; 
And then he came, and took me where 
Immortal bliss with him I share. 

So knowing what thy heart has known. 
Behold. I come thy life to crown 
With one bright hour of mortal bliss — 
Then follow me !' 'Tis done, and this 
Is what her kind compassion brought : 
Thee and thy love, with every rapture fraught. 

XIII. 

" * But one bright hour of mortal bliss' ! 
Oh, what mysterious doom is this ? 
Shall we in one short hour dissever, 
And all our joys be flown forever?" 
He quick inquiry made. Then she, 
"Ah ! no; what did I say should be ?" 
" But one bright hour to me and thee !" 
" Ah ! yes; and thus the spirit said. 
But yet I reck not what to dread !" 

Scarce had this strange foreboding been 
Bespoke by her, his bride and queen, 
When on the night a savage yell 
Was heard, like notes of death, to swell. 
" They come! they come ! thy sire's mad race 
Must sever'd be this dear embrace?" 



THE LOVERS' LEAP. 105 

" No ! no !" Mulita wildly cried — 
" Then be it so !" he swift replied. 

One more fond kiss of love is theirs, 
One more embrace ; and life's dark cares 
Are over with. The brink is past, 
And they in death are sleeping fast. 

I. 
The Bards of Song, for many a year. 

Beside that stream at even. 
When bright the moon, in leafy June, 

Shone from the heights of heaven. 
To brave young chiefs sang still of them. 

And told their tale of sorrow, 
Till e'en the strain is heard again 

In this succeeding morrow. 

11. 

And still upon that bank are seen, 

At eve, a youth and maiden. 
Watching the gleam upon the stream. 

And singing a song of Aiden. 
And when the noon of night is come, 

They gaze on the moon with sorrow. 
Then plunge beneath to the depths of death, 

To wait the coming morrow. 

III. 
And still is this a hallow'd place — 
The trysting-place of lovers. 



io6 THE LOVERS' LEAP. 

Who come at eve, and sadly grieve 
To the moon that o'er them hovers. 

They tell to the ear of night their tale, 
With amatory sorrow ; 

But the sprite which stray'd to the Indian maid 
Comes not to them on the morrow. 

April, 1871. 



A DREAM. 

TO A YOUNG LADY OF GENIUS. 

"Vy HEN the day's gleaming splendor fades over the deep, 

And night walks the starry-paved plain, 
Enveloping earth in nepenthean sleep. 

And freeing each spirit of pain, 
'Tis then that the beautiful goddess of dreams 

Diffuses her mystical charms ; 
And, oh, if our life e'er delectable seems, 

'Tis then as we lie in her arms ! 

Last night, as the Lethean magic of sleep 

O'er my faint, weary senses was thrown, 
Like a bright rising star in the distance, the car 

Of this lady came hurrying on ; 
And each dapple-dight steed, with impetuous speed, 

Sped bright through the firmament blue, 
Till I heard e'en the beat of their soft tinkling feet. 

So near to my pillow they drew. 

Then they paused in their flight, when, with beauty 
bedight. 

This goddess, so witchingly fair, 
Alighted, and, lo ! to my spirit she call'd, 

And my spirit, enchanted, was there. 



io8 A DREAM. 

And swift in her cai- were this lady and I, 

And then, at the wave of her wand, 
Each dapple-dight steed, with impetuous speed. 

Sped far o'er earth's shimmering strand. 

And onward they flew, as the fleet-footed hours, 

Through Elysian realms unknown, 
O'er crystalline streams pellucid with gleams 

As bright as affection e'er shone. 
And still onward afar this magical car, 

With its magical mistress, moved bright ; 
And the rapture then mine 'tis not man's to divine. 

Nor his in such bliss to delight ! 

E'en all that is fair to the vision, or rare, 

With the lustre of loveliness dight, 
Came dazzling to view in each glittering sphere. 

Like stars on the forehead of Night. 
Yet amid each rich scene which my spirit did ken. 

The rarest and fairest of all 
Was that which the last moment witchingly cast 

On my vision, and this I recall : 

Methought that afar this magical car 

Had sped till it paused on the brow 
Of a mountain so high that the lips of the sky 

Softly kiss'd its rough cheek, nor did bow. 
Then eastward I turn'd, and the morning, unurn'd. 

From his wave-cover' d couch did arise ; 
And the brightness he bore then was never before. 

And will ne'er be again, I surmise. 



A DREAM. 109 

Then my vision did change ; and how wilderingly strange 

Was a scene at the foot of that mount ! 
There, slumbering, it seem'd, was a maiden that dream'd, 

As she lay by a glittering fount. 
And a being more fair than the maid lying there 

Was never a mortal's to see ; 
And so pensive and bright was her brow that the sight 

Fill'd with rapture this lady and me. 

Then we heard on the air a symphony rare, 

That with music demulcently rung. 
Like an echoing note from that region remote 

Where Israfel sweetly hath sung. 
And the beings which swept those dulcimers rare, 

And pour'd forth such music divine, 
To our visions now came, like the Pleiads aflame; 

For with morning their lustre did shine. 

And nearer to where lay the slumbering fair, 

This bright apparition, with song 
And music and dance, did swiftly advance, 

Yet I fear'd for the sleeper no wrong; 
For so lovely a queen that phantom band led 

That I deem'd her the goddess of Aiden ; 
But this lady with me call'd her Virtue, and said, 

" She is loved by your beautiful maiden. 

"And now to repay that devotion so pure 

She comes, like a meteor bright. 
With her glittering train, from yon sainted domain 

Where seraphs seem stars in their flight." 



no A DREAM. 

She paused, and, behold ! round the form of this maid, 

Now lost in delirium of sleep, 
This rare apparition, in beauty array'd, 

Gather' d fast, as if watch there to keep. 

Then the silence was broke by that opulent queen, 

As her eyes turn'd on one of that thronij, 
Who himself seem'd a god, so bedight was his sheen; 

And these were the words of her song : 
*• This is she ! then I pray that thy sceptre be hers. 

Since thou wilt its power resign; 
For her bosom is rife with each virtue of life, 

And her soul even now is divine !" 

" Then 'tis hers," said the god, as he knelt on the sod 

By her so composedly sleeping ; 
And he placed in her hand his magical wand, 

And said, " She is worthy its keeping." 
And as now he arose did the mystery disclose : 

That god who had plighted this vow 
Was Genius' bright self, and the maiden so blest — 

The maiden so happy — wert thou ! 



TO 

ON RECEIVING HER PICTURE. 

n^HERE is a soft and magic wile 

E'en in the semblance of thy charms ; 
And though bereft of that sweet smile, 
It still my bosom thrills and warms. 

Its hues are faint, and ill bespeak 

The rosy living tints that start 
To view in features which they seek 

To imitate by mortal art. 

Yet even here I still may trace * 

Full many a beauty wild and deep, — 

Full many a partial nymphic grace, 
Which but in thee their being keep. 

That tender look, so soft and pure. 
That only beams from eyes like thine, 

Were there no other charm to lure, 
Alone could move this heart of mine. 

For it reflects its rays from off 

A heart which Heaven hath woo'd and won 
Before whose shrine e'en saints would doff 

Their crowns, its sacredness to own. 



TO 



Those cheeks that have so brightly glow'd 
For me with smiles were wont to move; 

Those lips through which sweet whispers flow'd, 
And bathed my soul with dews of love, 

How soft their tinted rosy hue ! 

As if caught from the aerial bow 
Which bends along the boundless blue, 

By glittering sunbeams made to glow. 

That beauteous brow, how smooth and fair! 

Forsooth it seems that Nature tried 
Her loftiest skill, imprinting there 

Beauties which heaven to earth denied. 

And eyes, — such matchless eyes as thine ! 

Such darkly midnight rolling eyes ! — 
To paint would be a task divine, 
,Nor muse nor artist could devise. 

But ye who would discern their charm. 
One moment bask beneath their glow ; 

Though cold thy heart, it then must warm, 
And fast its blood must .ebb and flow ! 

This dainty boon, through many a day 
Worn nearest, dearest to my heart. 

Shall chase its clouds of grief away, 
And springs of virtue newly start. 

Through life it ne'er shall pass from me; 

And when shall start the ebbing breath, 
Quick, fast, and fever'd, it shall be 

A light amid the gloom of Death ! 



A VALENTINE. 

CURELY thou art a goddess ! and, as such, 

Wakens my heart devotional to thee ; 
As lute-strings 'neath a master-minstrel's touch 

Fill all the azure air with melody, 

So while thine image, or its memory, 
Before my raptured vision bright. doth move, 
A magic, fraught with every charm of love. 

Pervades ray spirit, like the calm of thought 
That o'er thee always hovers, thus to prove 

The matchless purity thy soul hath caught. 
As though 'twere part of that we dream above. 

So now I bring a tribute, simply wrought, 
Of passion pouring wildly on thy shrine 
Its every ebb and flow, for all its fount is thine !^ 



* By arranging first letter of first line with second letter of second 
line, and the succeeding letters of their respective lines in a consec- 
utive order, a full name will appear. 



^.Cj- 



PROPHECY OF AARON BURR. 

"Y^HY broken are my slumbers ? why 

Moves the dark fiend Ambition still 
Athwart my vision, with his eye 

Flashing the lightnings of a will 
That does not cower? Why are my dreams 

Haunted by spectres such as stole 

In frenzy through Jugurtha's soul 
When lured too far by glory's beams 
Up the high steep of Fame ?* Ah ! say; 

For is not hope fled, which erst shone, 
With more than meteoric ray, 

Above that pageant of a throne? 

Nations respond, and say that crime, 

By wild ambition urged, has doom'd 
My name to be a mock of time. 

And all my nobler deeds consumed. 
The basest villain smiles with scorn. 

And points to me, and says, " Behold 

A man to selfish glory sold, 
A traitor to his country born, 
A Cain-mark'd tyrant who could lay 

A brother bleedingr in the dust; 



* See RoUin, vol. i., chap. ii. 



PROPHECY OF AARON BURR. 115 
And that, a crown had led the way, 



His heart would deem the treason just 



"■Sf 



This ye decree ! but that the frown 

Of fate forbade niy brow to bear 
The diadem and regal crown 

Which boyish dreams had pictured there, 
Yet has my heart not still been taught 

To bow in silence to its doom ; 

And though its hopes are wrapp'd in gloom. 
And all the phantom deeds it wrought 
Been smother'd, like the meteor's glare 

Which pours along the sky its flame, 
My spirit will not yet despair, — 

Agam they'll rise and light my fame ! 

Again will rise ! Ay ! now behold, 
As moves the curtain back of time, 

The secrets which to me unfold 

Of wrong, oppression, and of crime. 

Hush ! hear ye not the sound of strife ? 
But no : my ear alone has heard 
The battle's thunder which has stirr'd 

The element of human life. 

Northward the storm is gathering, — 

The lightning's gleam, the thunder's roar, 



* " A maxim advanced by Etiocles in a tragedy called ' The 
Phoenicians,' and which Caesar had always in his mouth : If justice 
may be violated at all, it is when a throne is in question."— Ko\.- 
LiN : Introduction. 



PROPHECY OF AARON BURR. 

Louder and louder, while the wing 

Of Death sweeps o'er yon sunny shore. ■^ 

Thou lovely land ! thy flowery fields 

Are reeking with thine own sons' blood, - 

Who die in vain ; for freedom yields 
Before the unpitying battle's flood. 

Thy prayer to heaven in vain was borne ! 
For Mercy weeps not o'er thee now : 
But from thy young and happy brow 

The wreath of glory has been torn. 

And fetter'd now I see thee stand, 
As beauteous as the Grecian slave, 

And yet more sad; but what bold h.md 
Will strike thy liberty to save ? 

Ye cursed me when Ambition lured 
My soul to strike for kingly glory; 

And that I fail'd, my name obscured 
By treason fills the page of story. 

But I forgive thee now ! To wear 
A Pisistratus' crown I strove. 
Which e'en a Solon might approve;* 

But that wild hope has been a snare. 

Such as the one which freedom gave 
To thee to rend oppression's chain, 

And make thee something more than slave ; 
For both have been, alas! but vain. 



* Referring to the late war between the States, 
f See RoUin, vol. i., bk. v., a viii. 



PROPHECY OF AARON BURR. 117 

Yet still prophetic sweeps my eye 

Adown the darken'd aisle of ages ; 
And direr scenes are sweeping by 

Than yet have fill'd historic pages. 
A throne above my country stands — 

A regal sceptre grimly waves 

Above a noble race of slaves, 
Who sit, with fetter'd feet and hands, 
Supinely round their master's throne, 

Doing him homage ! Is thy dream 
Of liberty, great Washington, 

Vouchsafed as thou would have it seem ? 

And yet once more ! Behold the vision ! 

Enough ! my country's free — her fields 
Smile in their bloom a new Elysian, 

While to her power the tyrant yields. 
Around her brow once more the wreath 

Of glory has been twined, as fair 

As that which erst was blooming there 
Ere blighted by a Northern breath. 
And Liberty, heaven-born queen ! 

With beauty smiling on her brow, 
Above my country sits serene. 

Sceptred in right and justice now. 

But it is done ! The vision's past ! 

No more to me the column'd years 
In grandeur tower along the vast 

And dreadful future ! What appears 



1 8 PROPHECY OF AARON BURR. 

Destined is writ. Yet I can smile 
Above the ruin which is wrought, 
Nor feel one pang upbraid the thought, 

Though it beseem a funeral pile. 

For in my dreams of glory thou 

Wert made the queen of empires, deck'd 

In more than orient splendor — how, 

Alas, have such wild dreams been wreck'd 

But thou, mad heart, be still ! 'Tis done ! 

The frantic picture in the brain, 
Of sceptre, diadem, and throne. 

Has vanish'd, ne'er to wake again ! 
Yet that I thus was lured, I feel 

No vain regret perturb my heart ; 

For, freed again, its blood would start. 
And deeds still mightier would reveal. 
But such is not ! And thus I stand 

Fetter'd in spirit — robed in gloom; 
Then fare thee well ! thou lovely Land ! 

Thy heroine virtue wrought my doom. 



^^ 



A PARAPHRASE. 

A SCHOOL EXERCISE. 

" The strongest passions allow us some rest, but Vanity keeps us 
in perpetual motion." 

"What a dust do I raise !" says a fly upon a coach's wheel. "At 
what a rate do I drive !" says the fly upon a horse's back. 
" Oh, how the Passions, insolent and strong, 
Bear our weak minds their rapid course along ; 
Make us the madness of their will obey ; 
Then die, and leave us to our griefs a Prey !"— Crabbk. 

T^HUS every passion will relent, 

When waken'd to its highest state; 
For when its wildest fury's spent, 

It will unconsciously abate. 
No mortal breast could brook the pain 

That it would bring, were it to dwell 
Forever there : 'twould be a bane, 

And turn the soul to deeds of hell. 

'Twould be assuaged though worlds were lost ; 

Though life-blood had the debt to pay ! 
Thus all unmindful of the cost 

'Twould run unguided in its way. 
'Twould, like a wild tornado, spread 

Destruction o'er whate'er it passed, 

119 



A PARAPHRASE. 

Despite the prayers of hearts that bled, 
And death on either side would cast. 

But then the mighty Power Supreme, 

That rules the ways of mortal man, 
Guides onward, like a gentle stream, 

Each passion, as it first began. 
A stream, when torrents in it pour. 

Runs high and madly on its way ; 
But when the ocean 's reach'd, no more, 

Or long, does it thus boisterous stay. 

And so the passions, too, may swell 

One moment wild and high ; 
But when appeased, they cease to dwell 

Within the breast, and thus they die. 
4f * -x- * * * * -If 

But Vanity 's the " food of fools," 

There is no remedy to stay ; 
And though they little learn at schools. 

That little is enough, they say. 
For their opinion is that time 

Has never such a wonder known ; 
Their deeds are matchless and sublime, 

They tower, unrival'd, all alone. 

But who are these, — these wondrous men. 
That uneclipsed in glory stand, 

That shine with radiancy serene 
Above the greatest of the land ? 



A PARAPHRASE. 

Ah ! who are they ? Is one a Lee ? 

Whom nations praise with hearts elate ! 
Is he the wondrous prodigy? 

The one on whom hath smiled fair Fate? 

No, never! but yon silly fop 

Who " sports a goatee and moustache !" 
A fancy cane, with pinchbeck top — 

A little credit, and less cash! 

* * * * -K- * -X- 

This is the fly that makes the dust 

When riding on a coach's wheel; 
But who would such a wonder trust, 

Or in his august presence kneel ? 
This is the fly that drives so fast 

When seated on a horse's back, 
He who so cruelly doth blast 

The hopes of many maids — alack ! 




TO MARY. 



w 



'HEN the moon beams 
O'er silent streams, 
Thou in my dreams 
Of all forms art the dearest; 
And when in thought 
By day, if aught 
Is loved or sought. 
My heart holds thee the nearest. 

And though the fair 

And debonair, 

"With charms as rare 
As fancy bright e'er measured, 

Around me smile 

"With airy wile, 

My heart the while 
Keeps still thine image treasured. 

For in the time 

Of boyhood's prime. 

Ere sin and crime 
Its core had warp'd and wither'd, 

Thy gentle form. 

With living charm, 

That soul did warm 
Which now by grief is shiver' d. 



TO MARY. 123 

But, ah ! no more 

Thy smites gleam o'er 

My heart's dark core, 
Awaking hope and gladness ; 

But every glow 

Of joy, in woe 

Has sunken low, 
Leaving my soul in madness. 

Yet though thy glance 

And soft parlance 

Shall ne'er entrance, 
As in the days now over, 

Still will my heart 

With fondness start 

To where thou art, 
And there in spirit hover. 

And when shall beam. 

With silver gleam. 

O'er tower and stream, 
Night's torches light and airy, 

In vision sweet, 

With joy replete. 

Our souls shall meet. 
And love be ours, Mary. 



TO HER TO WHOM 'TIS MOST 
APPROPRIATE. 

T^ARE thee well ! we part forever! 

Though, fair maid, it gives me pain, 
I must leave, and quickly sever 
Love and hope that were in vain. 

I will linger, though I leave thee. 

In my dreams around thee still; 
But how much thou didst bereave me 

With thy too obdurate will ! 

Thou canst never know, ah, never! 

Though I would that it could be ; 
Then that love, that thou dost sever, 

Might again return to me. 

For the vows by thee once plighted, 
When thy heart beat high and warm 

With the love I had requited 
By bright Cupid's magic charm, 

Have been coldly, rudely broken, 

But have left a cureless sting 
In my heart, to me a token 

What the vows of maidens bring. 



TO WHOM 'TIS MOST APPROPRIATE. 125 

Had my love been unrequited, 

I could then some solace find 
In the thought no hope was blighted 

By the changing of the mind. 

But thou once didst love me kindly; 

Now to spurn me thus is more 
Than a heart that loved so blindly 

Can, or will, or should endure. 

Faithless maiden, list, oh, list thee 

To these tender tones of one 
Who in other days caress'd thee, 

When thy heart was all his own ! 

And should future years revert thee 

To the memories of the past. 
Think, though scorn'd, he'll not forget thee, 

But will love thee to the last. 

But I'll cease, and not disturb thee 

With the thoughts I scarce can brook ; 
Still am constant, still I love thee. 
Yet by thee I am forsook ! 
1869. ^ 




WENDELL DE WAVERLY. 



T/' NOW ye that land where first the smile of Spring 

Awakes the flowers, and bids the birds to sing ?^' 
Where verdant plains forever charm the eye 
Beneath the glow of never-clouded sky, 
And where, around whose arbor vitcs shores, 
The Gulf's deep voice perpetual music pours? 
'Tis mine to know, and there reverts the strain 
Which I would sing, nor hope to sing in vain. 

II. 

Once in that lovely land was rear'd a child 
Around whose path auspicious fortune smiled. 
His featui-es, with Mosaic beauty wrought,-}- 
Each passing eye with admiration caught ; 
And, with precocious mind, he seem'd to reach 
Beyond his years, and elder children teach. 
And oft was he beheld in mimic show 
Climbing the steep of fame, his cheeks aglow 



* " Know j-e the land where the cypress and myrtle." 

Tlie Bride of Ahydos. 
t See Josephus, vol. i. book ii. chap, ix., concerning the beauty of 
Moses when a child. 
126 



WENDELL DE WAVERLY. 127 

With rapture of his triumphs. But he saw 

No pageant grand upon the distance draw ; 

No gorgeous throne, around whose base the blood 

Of human millions in one vortex stood,. 

Crying to heaven ; and no famish'd poor 

Cursing their lord while bowing to adore. 

For in his young heart had a mother's tears 

And kindly prayers awaken'd Christian fears. 

Yet still, as childhood is the age of hope, 

He deck'd his young sky's bright and sunny scope 

With stars and rainbows ; and the drifting clouds 

He call'd good angels, robed in spotless shrouds. 

But all his hours were not so happy sped ; 
For oft, when tired of sport, he came to tread 
The threshold of his home, a -mother's tears 
Dissolved his heart with more than boyish fears. 
The story of her grief he knew full well ; 
But still his little heart afresh would swell 
With a responsive throb, alas ! that she, 
Plis widow' d mother, could not happy be. 

And thus the tale is told as oft by her 
With sighs repeated, when the gentle stir 
Of evening zephyrs cool'd the brow of night 
And bade her heart be calm : " When Ufe was bright, 
And young, and beautiful, before me past 
The real picture of that vision cast 
By fancy on the future, when the glow 
Of girlhood tinged my cheek. Each ebb and flow 
Of my young heart awaken'd some new dream 
Of happiness, until the very beam 



128 WENDELL DE WAVERLY. 

Of bliss celestial round my being shone 

Entrancing in its ray. And not alone 

To me was Heaven's bright smile auspicious lent; . 

For he who was my girlhood's idol went 

In and out before me ; and thy smile, 

Sweet cherub boy, was sent, another wile 

To bind my heart more closely unto earth — 

Which ever stands a barrier to the birth 

Of souls for Heaven. Day by day our bliss 

Brighten'd existence, but to end in this. 

It was a gloomy morn ! with features pale 
And haggard as in death, my bridal veil 
He took and wreathed around my brow, and when 
My face grew sad at what was passing then, 
He bade me with a smile be bright again, 
For he but wish'd to know what change was wrought 
Within my features since our wedding. Taught 
With more than woman's faith his slightest word 
To trust and heed, though with foreboding stirr'd 
Of something evil, took his parting kiss; 
And thus, alas ! was seal'd our sunny bliss. 

An hour went by — another came — and none 
Return'd to calm my anguish, which had grown 
Beyond endurance ; for prophetic love 
Did reach into futurity and move 
The secrets of the fates. The clock's third stroke, 
Alas ! seem'd like a new age had awoke, 
I then look'd forth : as swift as speed of horse 
Could bear his rider on his rapid course, 
A herald came, and thus in few was said : 
'A duel has been fought — your husband's dead !' " 



WENDELL BE WAVERLY. 129 



III. 



Thus would she end the story of that grief 
Which robb'd her youth of beauty, and made brief 
Her mortal life. Alas, how brief! for, lo ! 
Scarce on the brow of Waverly the glow 
Of eighteen summers shone, when came these words, 
" In heaven meet thy mother !" which records 
Her last fond blessing, and solacing prayer 
That, though dissever'd here, they might meet there. 

But this was scarce consoling to that heart 
Which, wild with grief, would from his bosom start. 
He look'd around him, and he stood alone 
On life's dark shore, with not a heart to own 
A kindred feeling, or inspire his breast 
With those fond hopes a mother's prayers had blest. 
And who, alas ! can know the pangs of one 
Who on life's stream is left to drift alone? 
The world hath many heart-aches, but the worst, 
The' unkindest, is to be thus early curst ! 

Some months went by, and every passing tongue 
Express'd much wonder that a heart so young 
Should bow so long with grief; for scarce a smile 
Had o'er his perfect lips been seen the while. 
E'en had the eye of beauty lost its charm. 
Which erst had power his inmost soul to warm. 
All pleasures passed unnoticed; but where good 
Could be attain'd, there unabash'd he stood. 
His friends with pride beheld his rising fame. 
As many a heart with blessings breathed his name. 



I30 WENDELL DE WAVERLY. 

Yet, in these dreary months, there was but one 
To whom his secret hopes were wholly known ; 
And this was she whose almost infant love 
Had been his rainbow, arching life above. 
To her for solace, in his hours of grief, 
He ever turn'd, to find a sure relief. 
His dreams of glory she beheld arise 
In effigy along life's dawning skies ; 
For every thought which sway'd his youthful breast 
Was known to hers, and by her own was blest. 
But envious fate grew wroth, and trusting youth 
Was made a prey to tongues that poison truth. "^ 
The spring of love had vanish'd, with its flowers, 
With all its fairy-tales, and sunny bowers ; 
And that bright sky, so late with rainbows spread. 
With storms is cover'd — and the heart is dead. 

IV. 

To paint a reckless life, to tear the mask 
From off the hidden heart, is sure a task 
The pen might fain be happy to forego ; 
But this the tale demands, and mine to know 
And to reveal. Wendell de Waverly, when 
He found his last demulcent hope had been 
Only an exhalation as the rest, 
He cursed his being ; and with hopeless quest 



' Alas ! they had been friends in youth ; 
But whispering tongues can poison truth." 
Coleridge' s Christabel. 



WENDELL BE WAVERLY. 131 

For the unanswering bliss of life, he sought 
The glowing wine-cup to extinguish thought. 

He spurn'd his dearest friends, and in saloons 
Was mostly found at mornings, and at noons, 
And sure at night; while in each loathsome game 
With eagerness he plunged, until his name, 
As once for goodness, was familiar known 
In every low and wicked haunt of town. 

His friends, not yet despairing, would with tears 
Plead for his swift return from ruin ; but with jeers 
He gave them answer! But there still was one 
Who whilom in his boyhood was alone 
His bosom comrade; unto him full oft 
He would incline his ear, and answer soft. 

This generous friend would argue of the past — 
Those pure, bright days — and of his mother's last 
And fondest blessing; but his heart, yet hard, 
Would every prayer of fond concern discard. 

And then, at last, when other hopes were vain. 
The name Endora sought his heart to gain. 
He back recoil'd in madness from his friend. 
And with an oath that gentle name did blend. 
Its charm was lost, or had too great a charm ; 
For through his veins his blood went coursing warm. 
His wrathful eye, lit up with darkling gleam, 
Seeni'd like a madman's waken'd from a dream. 
Oath after oath escaped his quivering mouth. 
Till oaths had dried his tongue, as dries the drouth 
The shrubbery of the plain ! Then on his heel 
He turn'd away, and left his friend to feel 



132 ■■ WENDELL DE WAVERLY. 

And bear the pangs his hasty wrath had wrought; 
Himself a prey to more than anguish'd thought. 

V. 

The moon is waning on the brow of night, 
And further falls her ghastly gleaming light 
Ayont the mountain, whose long shadows, paint 
Upon the streams full many a picture quaint. 
The stars grow less in lustre, as their ray 
Fades from the earth along the Milky Way. 
All now are sleeping, save the' ungodly few 
Who tread the night with nothing good in view ; 
Save those whose hearts, imbued with sin and crime. 
In riot madly stamp the stage of time. 

But, lo ! whose footsteps o'er yon verdant lawn 
Is wending fast, as if he fear'd the dawn 
Of morning would o'ertake him in his flight ? 
But hush! himself gives answer : "Oh, thou bright 
And lovely being, whose entrancing voice. 
Even in this dread hour, might give the choice 
Of life or death ! across this green parterre 
How often have we wanton'd with no fear 
Of being reft asunder; but our dreams 
Had deck'd futurity with living beams. 
And more than living love ! But vain is youth ! 
Is any promise born of hope a truth ? 
No ; not recorded on the blotted page 
Of any life-book writ in youth or age. 
Ay ! no; for she who calmly sleeps to-night 
In yon fair mansion, blest with visions bright, 



WENDELL DE WAVERLY, 133 

Unmindful of this heart whose life-drop flows 

Only in token of the love that glows 

Unquench'd within its core — ah ! what of her? 

Are not those vows, she early did aver. 

Long years dissever'd ? Are those hopes not fled 

Which she inspired when all else dear was dead? 

This desperate deed gives answer ! Ah ! 'twas here, 

Upon this very cliff", I saw the first bright tear 

Of love to glitter in her eye ! But now, 

Alas, how broken is that holy vow ! 

It was a night like this ! no cloud remote 

Along the radiant sky was seen to float. 

Yon limpid stream is laughing just as free 

As on that night her love she plighted me. 

But let me calm my spirit, which is now 
Aweary of this world; for, oh, my brow 
Is bursting with its pangs ! Yon mellow moon 
Behind the mountain will be hidden soon. 
Oh, thou bright Crescent ! loveliest still of all 
Whose light this world has blest since man's sad fall ; 
If man to fellow-man had been as kind 
As thou to earth, they then this life would find 
Not so unhappy — not so void of hope ; 
But, just as thou, along life's azure scope. 
In hours of darkness, would their kindness shine — 
A blessed beacon to that world divine. 

Thy ray has almost vanish'd from my sight ; 
Yet, though obscured from mortal eye, this night 
Within thy sphere, which I have loved so long, 
My soul shall bask, and wake a loftier song. 



134 WENDELL DE WAVER LY. 

Then fare thee well, thou lovely, lovely earth ! 
Hadst thou as much of kindness in thy birth 
As thou hast beauty, oh, how blest were man ! 
But this is not our destiny ! The span 
Of life is sorrowful as short ! I go; 
Yet will one heart be sad ? will one tear flow 
That I am gone ? Endora, fare thee well ! 
For thy unkindness in my heart shall swell, 
In this last hour, no feeling but of joy 
Or of forgiveness ; but, as when a boy, 
Will cherish now thy smile, and let it be. 
Amid the gloom of death, a light to me ! 
I'm loth to leave thee, but once more farewell !" 

*' What hand would his own life dissever?" fell 
Upon his soul with more than mortal power; 
Aghast he turn'd — who faced him in that hour? 
" Wendell de Waverly ! is it thou whose hand 
Would force his soul before his God to stand ?" 

With pallid cheek and quivering lips he cried, 
" Endora, is it thou?" and at her side 
Trembling he stood. "What supernatural charm. 
In this most awful hour, hath led thy form 
To wander here where spirits of the lost, 
And mine, alone are in deep anguish tost ?" 

*' Ah ! 'twas thy better angel, who all night 
Hath through my visions swept with eager flight, 
And ceaseless warning of some dreadful deed ; 
And here I came, and thus thy life is freed. 
With love I heard thee breathe my name, and, oh. 
How wildly did the life-blood ebb and flow 



WENDELL DE WAVERLY. 135 

Across my bleeding breast, which has been torn 
With pain so long — so long in silence borne — 
The passion of my girlhood which I deem'd 
By ihee neglected and forgot, nor dream'd 
We should be reunited save in death !" 

" Endora, by the music of that breath 
Which tunes thy voice, and by thy love-lit eye. 
Which has the power to bid me live or die, 
I thought myself forgotten, — thought thy heart, 
Which is so true, was torn from love apart. 
But, Heaven be blest ! it was our trusting youth 
That sank a prey to tongues that poison truth." 

His voice gave o'er, but on her cheek the kiss 
Of love was echo to his young soul's bliss. 
Their vows anew were plighted as the dawn 
With orient jewels deck'd the smiling lawn. 
And, with their young hearts glowing with new hope 
And brighter joy, they saw the future ope 
Wiser and better on their raptured view, 
While fancy's gaudy wings along the distance flew. 

VI. 

Oh, how much happier is that hapless heart 
Whose, bleeding core has long endured the smart 
And sting of anguish and of hope deferr'd. 
At length, in hour unthought, its life is stirr'd 
Unto its inmost soul by some sweet bliss, 
Which is not frequent felt in worlds like this. 

The life of Waverly was not wholly cursed, 
Though much and long on Sorrow's bosom nursed. 



136 WENDELL DE WAVE ELY. 

For through his vision flits again that dream 
Which made his early years so happy seem. 
The throng is gather'd in the nuptial hall 
Where sylphic dance, and music's melting call 
Awakes, with bounding joy, the heart of each and all. 

I see her at the altar bow, 

A blush upon her cheek; 
A diadem upon her brow ; 
With voice so low the fitting vow 

I hear her gently speak. 
And she is happy now ! 

What lovelier tale is told than love 

Paints on the maiden's brow 
When soft her lips in whispers move 

To plight the marriage-vow? 
Ah ! are the hearts of those above 

More blest than she is now ? 

VII. 

One paragraph of Wendell's life is told, 
And blotted much the parchment, but 'tis roH'd 
Together as the world shall be, and seal'd ; 
Another leaf is turn'd, which, when reveal'd, 
Will end his life-book, and, though sadly vain. 
It still may bear some moral in its strain. 

The honey-moon of brightly wedded love 
Did o'er their hearts with more than pleasure move. 
The first blest pair of human kind scarce knew 
In Eden more of happiness than threw 



WENDELL DE WAVEKLY. 137 

Around their lives its richly g-olden chain, 

By Heaven's pure blessing link'd, but which in twain, 

Alas ! was rent asunder when that span 

Of life, so short and beautiful, began 

To fire those hopes of glory which had died 

In those dark years so madly swept aside. 

For Death's rude fingers, jealous of their bliss, 
Swept o'er her heart-strings, and impress'd his kiss 
On her fair lips, and from her soft blue eyes 
Dissolved that lustre born of azure skies. 
Oh, how was wrung that manly heart with grief! 
Why was his joy restored, if it so brief 
Must shed a radiance o'er the path of life? 
Why did not fate permit the end of strife. 
Which is coeval with existence, in 
That desperate hour, though it w ere more than sin ? 
No voice comes back to calm the troubled heart; 
The fates, alas ! no oracles impart 
To mortal ears, but dumb upon their throne 
They watch the gasping soul, and catch its dying moan. 

VIII. 

The thunder-tone of battle echoes far, 
And bids young freedom stem the tide of war. 
Mercy has pleaded, yet still her burning prayer. 
Borne up to heaven, has found no entrance there; 
But o'er our sunny shore the courser black 
Of death is sweeping with his ruthless pack 
Of hell-hounds at his heels, nor stoops to save 
Even the form of beauty from the grave. 



138 WENDELL DE WAVER LY. 

Oh, when shall Cain-mark'd moguls cense to sway 
The sword of empire o'er their kindred clay ? 
When shall their brothers' blood, whose cry is made. 
Go up to Heaven, and bring down Heaven's aid ? 
For o'er our bleeding Greece what eye can glance, 
And not with pity melt, or raise for her the lance ? 
As Scotia's lovely queen, all fetter'd, lay 
Before the avenging pride of England's sway, 
So stands the South with bleeding heart, to-day. 
Before the unpitying North ! But let my theme 
Not here be broken by the saddest dream 
Which thrills a Southern heart ! I said the voice 
Of battle roused her people to the choice 
Of death or slavery; and, as taught to feel 
None but the dastard ever brook to kneel 
Before the' oppressor's rod, full many a son 
Of freedom rose, and laid their young lives down 
A sacrifice for her. Among the first 
The sword of Wendell from its scabbard burst. 
He had no loved one in whose cause to fight 
But that of country and her free-born right. 
Yet this was more to him than life; and where 
He saw her banner proudly floating, there 
His gallant arm was raised, while blow on blow 
For her was struck, till he himself laid low. 
On old Virginia's life-drop-reeking bhore. 
Where glows that twice-bought field of tears and gore, 
His dauntless soul, with many a comrade's brave, 
Went down to death their bleeding land to save. 
He fell as from the earth the daylight sped. 
As from the field the vanquish'd foemen fled. 



WENDELL DE WAVERLY. 

And as of old a dyinc; hero lay 
Stretch'd on the field where raged the mad afifray, 
And still rejoiced when told his country wore 
High on her brow the laurel stain'd with gore, 
So Wendell fell, triumphant in his death. 
And bless'd his country with his latest breath. 
He gasp'd her name, and that of his young bride. 
As Orpheus, floating on the Stygian tide, 
vStill call'd Eurydice, whose radiant name 
The hills in echo wafted on to fame. 

Then let him sleep, as sleeps our country's brave. 
In honor'd turf — in more than honor'd grave. 
For her he died — will she deny a tear 
To moist the dust which wraps his lowly bier? 
Ah! no; for o'er her every hero's tomb 
With spring she comes, and wafts a fragrant bloom ; 
When autumn spreads his sable wings above, 
'Tis but the emblem of her deathless love ; 
In summer's sunbeams and in winter's snows. 
Her soul's deep prayer shall bless their calm repose. 
Then sleep, thou equal hero of my song 
And of thy country, with her peerless throng ! 
Thy praise is sung, but what shall better tell 
Thy deeds than say, LLe for our country fell ? 



39 




TO HER WHO FEELS THEM MOST. 

" Poor Desdemona ! I am glad thy father's dead. 
******** 

* * * * Did he live now, 

This sight would make him do a desperate turn. 
Yea, curse his better angel from his side, 
And fall to reprobation." 

A H ! faded is the diadem, 

And from the crown of life 
Is lost the rarest, richest gem, 
That shone, with lustre rife, 
Bright as the Star of Bethlehem, 
Amid the soul's dark strife ! 

And from the eye of him who caught 

Its radiance as a spell. 
Has fled the picture that it wrought 

Within the brain so well, — 
Has vanish'd every hope which sought 

With it alone to dwell. 

I gaze upon its molten dust. 

Which now before me lies. 
And question Fate if this is just, 

The boon I so much prize 
To blast forever, as the trust 

Which friendship oft belies. 
140 



TO HER WHO FEELS THEM MOST. 141 

There is no voice from out the deep 

Of that unkind Unknown ; 
But there the cruel Sisters keep 

Their vigils all alone, 
And watch the broken-hearted weep 

Willi hearts unmoved as stone. 

That jewel rare, of life the charm, 

No more remains to me ! 
My heart is frozen which was warm 

With passion wild for thee ; 
And I am weary of that storm 

Which lull'd may never be, 

I had not thought such pangs to brook ; 

I did not dream them mine; 
But turning o'er of life's young book 

Another page, as thine, 
Behold it there ! I will not look — 

But bring me hither wine ! 

Thou born of Hell 1 of thee I claim 

The solace of an hour. 
To cool the frenzy and to tame 

The fury of that power 
Which pours upon my soul its flame 

Of woe, and bids me cower. 

The' indignant fiends burst forth, and, lo ! 

Above the wreck of life 
They fling the fire-brands of woe, 

To burn amid the strife, 



142 TO HER WHO FEELS THEM MOST. 

And drink the life-drops as they flow 
From Grief's deep-cutting knife ! 

The fire of frenzy in the brain 

At length has lull'd to rest; 
And though still sounds the hopeless strain 

Of sorrow in the breast, 
Like echoes of a prayer in vain, 

Still would I have thee blest. 

Ah ! shiver'd is the dearest boon 

Which life had promised me; 
And from my hapless heart how soon 

Dissever'd hope and thee ! 
Nor yet is changed my night to noon, 

As I had dream'd should be. 

But I shall ever hold thee still, 

Forgetting all thy wrong, 
The dearest object which can fill 

My soul, and wake its song ; 
And if there's aught can sorrow kill. 

To thee the spells belong i 

I go; but when within thy heart 

The memory of my form 
To life a picture bright shall start. 

And with affection warm 
Thy gentle bosom, know thou art 

Of my curst life the charm ! 



TO HER WHO FEELS THEM MOST. 143 

Thea fare thee well ! thou hapless child ! 

From thee I now am gone ; 
I grieve that thou wert thus beguiled, 

That fate should on thee frown ; 
Yet it is done, and I am wild, — 

A wreck on life alone ! 
UGUST 3, 1872. 




THE YEARS OF YOUTH. 

TO "TOM," COUSIN TO THE AUTHOR. 

" Life is a lie, and love a cheat." 

"PAIR Colorado ! on thy shore, 

Which wanton Spring has just array'd 

In robes of green, as decks the maid 
Her mistress, I recline, and pore. 
With philosophic eye, thy waters o'er. 

'Twas here in childhood first I play'd, 
When life was happy, young, and bright; 
And o'er its sky no cloud, or night, 
Was seen to float, or rudely frown ; 
But birdling hope, in ermine down. 
Her pinions spreading on the air, 
Chased through the future many a fair 
And fairy phantom, as if life 
Were but with stars and rainbows rife. 

'Twas here — how bright the picture seems !- 

First love, with all its rosy dreams, 

Its blushing smile and timid kiss, 

Enchanted life with that sweet bliss 

Which but the breast of boyhood knows 

When passion first along it glows. 
144 



7~HE YEARS OF YOUTH. 145 

J see her yet : her long black hair 
Is sporting with the Cupid air, 
Whose amorous kisses but impart 
The wildness of my own wild heart. 
With tenderness her hand in mine, 
As wont, I see it yet recline; 
And as the butterflies at play, 
We chase the roseate hours away. 

But ere I quit these smiling scenes. 
And paint the gloom which intervenes, 
My pencil would a picture trace 
Of one, though not as fair of face 
As she of whom I lately spake, 
Yet was more true ; and not the flake 
Which since was melted by the gleam 
Of absence, or a fairer dream. 

He was ray friend — the firbt and best — 
As shall be shown ere I divest 
My spirit of the Muse's charm 
And tear from her embraces warm. 
Together first along these banks 
We gambol'd in our boyish pranks, 
Climbing yon hill with all the pride 
Of Switzers up the Alps' steep side ; 
With gun and dog, to bird and hare 
We were a terror stalking there. 
And thus our young lives brightly passed — 
Alas, how brightly and how fast ! 
But that deep friendship which they taught 
Has never yet been less to thought; 



146 THE YEARS OF YOUTH. 

For as still flows thy tide, old river, 
So it hath flow'd, and shall forever. 

Fair Colorado ! on thy shore. 
Where now I muse, with boyhood's years 
Vanish'd and gone, to me appears 
That scene of loveliness no more ; 
And as I watch thy waters pour 

Along thy banks, 'tis but with tears. 
For what is left me now of joy ? 
There stands my old home in alloy! 
The voices which once made it glad 
Are hush'd forever, and the sad 
And sobbing dirge of winds alone 
Is heard to waken there its tone. 

Oh, how deserted is that place 
Where first a mother's warm embrace 
My infant heart with joy made bright ! 
Where first a father's smile of light 
Inspired such hopes as never yet 
Have, in their radiance, wholly set ! 

But let me turn from what I view 
With that deep anguish such as few, 
Alas ! with years so young, have known. 
And trace a fairer page, if one. 
In years succeeding, has been writ. 
The leaf is turn'd. What sayeth it? 

Fair river! thy bright name is here 
Recorded not, but with that tear. 
Which blear'd the parchment lately turn'd, 
It was, in silent gloom, inurn'd. 



THE YEARS OF YOUTH. 147 

O'er other scenes 'tis mine to trace, 
And view full many a stranger face. 
And she whose smile is blent with thine 
In memory now alone may shine ; 
For Fate hath sever'd hope from each — 
Teaching what only such can teach. 

Other fond smiles from other eyes 
Have waked my heart with restless sighs ; 
And Fancy, with her pencil light, 
Hath fashion'd, for the youthful sight, 
A lovelier picture, which fair hope 
Hath promised shall illume the scope 
Of life's blue sky forever! Ah, 
How does this coquette, call'd a star, 
Trifle with life, as does the fair; 

With the young heart, whose only boon 
Is the wild anguish of despair ! 

Ay ! not more kind than they whose shoon 

Trampled of old by Thermodoon.* 
I've tasted all the sweets of love, — 

The glance, the smile, the kiss, the tear; 
And this is all its pleasures prove, — 

One hour of bliss for many a year 
Of sorrow and of conscience taught 
To sting — not sear— the soul of thought. 

Of one I spake who was my friend. 
We too were sever'd, but the years 



* A river of Asia Minor, famous for the abode of the Amazons. 



148 THE YEARS OF YOUTH. 

Which made life's journey widely tend, 
Left each unchanged. Thus much appears 
Since boyhood fled, and we again 
Have met to share each other's pain 
And joy, if aught perchance may be, 
And breathe those thoughts which are not free 
From the deep dungeon of the mind 
Till then — as they who know us find. 

Sure, other friendships have been forniM 
In these long years, as each was warm'd. 
By the wild passionate fire of love 
For others than the ones we strove 
Never to forget ; but though are changed 
These heart disorders, we are not estranged. 
And this is friendship! — such as touch'd 
The heart of Damon, and there clutch'd 
Unto the death ; and thus our souls. 

As the bright syzygy above, 

Will be united in that love 
Till o'er our spirits Lethe rolls. 

Then with thy name, thou first of friends, 

The echoes of my harp shall rise 
Ere it with wakeless silence blends, 

Or, wrapp'd in sorrow, tuneless lies. 
How many a hope, while in its spring, 

Hath vanish'd from my fondling view. 
As flies the bird, on wanton wing, 

Beyond the only home it knew ! 
And as deserted seems that spot 

When its bright tenant far hath fled. 



THE YEARS OF YOUTH. 149 

So is my heart a lonely gi"ot, 

A seeming charnel of the dead. 
Friendships have faded — all but thine ; 
E'en though I thought them more divine 
Than earthly in their hour of birth, 
Yet they have proved themselves but earth, 
And, with a Carthaginian mind,* 
Have taught that lesson most unkind. 

The garland bright, from Beauty's bowers. 
Which love had twined in happier hours 
And with it crown'd my brow, is dead. 
And not a flower remains to shed 
Its fragrance round the path of life ; 
But sorrow, with its serrate knife, 
Hath pierced my bosom to its core 
And spilt its almost vital gore. 

To Love I am no longer slave ! 
And Beauty's voice in vain shall crave 
The lost allegiance of my heart ; 
For it is weary of her art, 
And would in freedom beat again, 
Nor brook, as erst, her power of pain. 

Then what is left of all those dreams 
Which fill'd my early years with beams? 
Do none remain? Ay! yes, to me 
Ambition still is left as free. 



" Anciently, to denote a knavish, deceitful 7nind, no expression 
was thought more proper and emphatical than this : ^ Carthagijiian 
mind." — Rollin, book ii., sec. viii. 



I50 THE YEARS OF YOUTH. 

And, with his more than burning eye, 
Irradiates futurity. 
My mistress is no more the same : 
Fame is my mistress ! and her name, 
Breathed ever by my lips, shall give 
That mad desire to do and live. 
I have, in fancy, seen her face 
Lit with its rich celestial grace; 
And as was fired her darkling eye, 
Methought, who would not doubly die 
To win one glance when died the flame 
Of life in echo with her name ? 

Thou more than Siren ! 'tis thy voice 
Can make the soul of youth rejoice, 
E'en though the whisper sweet of love 
Is felt no more its deeps to move. 

Love first the boyish heart inspires ; 
Avarice the soul of manhood fires ; 
But youth, dull to the voice of each, 
By Fame is buoy'd her goal to reach. 
With her as guide, what burning heart 

Would not aspire to climb that mount 
Whose towering summit lies athwart 
The pathway to that radiant clime 
Which is the heaven of earth and time, 

And there, within its crystal fount, 
Allay that thirst which sleepless years 
Have borrow'd from the brine of tears ? 
Ah ! this were more than e'en the bliss 
Of-lireams of love, or the first kiss 



THE YEARS OF YOUTH. 151 

Which seals two young hearts when they beat 
But with one thought— one passion sweet. 
Then let me by the voice of Fame 

Be lull'd when comes that dreamless sleep, 
And, breathing still her burning name, 

Along the vault of heaven sweep ! 



THE END. 




